


the way our horizons meet

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Disability, Discussion of Abortion, Divorce, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pike Lives, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 97,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: Christopher Pike, in word and in deed.





	1. Chapter 1

No matter what she did, Emily just _could not get comfortable._ The chairs in this waiting room of the Desert Medical Plaza were just the tiniest bit too narrow for comfort, not to mention harder than a seat on a public bus. That would’ve been unpleasant enough, but toss in the general feeling of illness that had sent her to her doctor’s office in the first place and she was right miserable.

The words were starting to blend together on her PADD, so she clicked it off and massaged her temples, trying to ease her headache away. She felt her comm buzz in her pocket – probably Josh, wanting to see her tonight – but she ignored it, trying to focus on the blues and greens in the carpet and not her painfully churning stomach.

“Miss Beckett?”

 _Oh thank god,_ Emily thought, wavering a little as she stood up and her head began to swim. The medical assistant walked her back to an exam room, crinkling her brow a little at Emily’s slightly unsteady gait.

“All right, what brings you in today, sweetie?” she asked kindly, flipping a switch and taking a cursory glance at the biobed readout as Emily settled on it.

Emily sighed. “I don’t know. Mostly, I’m just exhausted. I’m having to take at least one nap a day, sometimes two. I fell asleep at dinner with my boyfriend two nights ago. I’m a little queasy, and…um…” She paused, flushing lightly. “…bloated, too. Lots of headaches, trouble concentrating…I don’t know; I just feel like something’s not right.”

The assistant nodded, gently depressing a hypo against the skin of Emily’s inner elbow to collect some blood. “You think maybe it’s the weather? We’re nearly into July; it’s starting to really bake out there. I’m having some trouble staying awake in the heat myself.”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve lived here my whole life; summer’s never knocked me out like this.” She closed her eyes; maybe she was just going crazy.

After a few seconds, Emily noted that it had gone awfully quiet in the exam room. She cracked one eye open and saw the assistant looking at the biobed readout, eyebrows arched slightly. Frowning, Emily tried to look up above her own head at the screen, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was seeing – it was all just a bunch of blinking lights to her.

“All right, dear; I’m going to go run some bloodwork and have the doctor come talk with you. Just sit tight. Won’t be long.”

Emily nodded, and as a testament to her current complaint of exhaustion, damn near fell asleep in seconds, jerking awake only when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder minutes later.

“Miss Beckett?”

Emily jumped a little, then settled as her eyes refocused on a man in his sixties with glasses, white hair, and a grandfatherly expression – he reminded her bizarrely of Santa Claus.

“I’m sorry to startle you. I’m Drew Joseph, the doctor on call today.”

Still a little bleary, Emily accepted his helping hand and sat up, trying to get her bearings. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little more tired than I thought…which is saying something.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Miss Beckett. Very much to be expected.”

Emily nodded once, then caught herself. “To be expected? You already know what’s wrong with me?”

Dr. Joseph nodded, giving Emily a sympathetic smile that made her pulse jump with anxiety. “I do. You’re eleven weeks pregnant.”

The good doctor might as well have spoken to Emily in Andorian. “I’m _what?”_

Dr. Joseph helped Emily swing around on the bed, then reactivated the biobed to illustrate things to his patient. “You see this right here?” he said, pointing to a blinking indicator. “This is your heart rate. And this,” he said, moving his finger to the side, to another indicator, this one smaller and blinking more quickly, “is a fetal heart rate.” He turned back to Emily, whose eyes were fixed on that little, furiously flickering light. “Based on your hormone levels from the blood sample we took, you’re between eleven and twelve weeks, due right after New Year’s.”

Emily felt waves of deeply unpleasant prickles rising up out of her solar plexus and cascading over her skin. She raked a hand through her hair, noticing its fine tremor as she did so.

“I take it this wasn’t exactly what you expected to hear today,” Dr. Joseph said kindly.

Emily tried twice to speak, but her mouth had gone too dry to form words; finally, she just shook her head.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’d tell anyone who got this news, which is that you’re the boss,” the doctor continued. “I’m sure you already know your options of continuing or terminating the pregnancy, either of which I’d be happy to help you with. And you do have some time to decide, but I would advise making your choice sooner rather than later, no matter what. If you choose to continue, you’ll need prenatal care as soon as possible; if you choose to terminate, at this point, the sooner the better.”

Emily swallowed a mouthful of nothing, feeling her comm buzz in her pocket again, this time _knowing_ it was Josh again. _Oh, god._

“I, um,” she said brokenly, “I have to talk to someone about this.”

Dr. Joseph nodded. “Of course. Let me just give you this,” he said, holding up a hypo. “It’s a vitamin supplement and an anti-emetic. It’ll help keep the queasiness at bay, and probably give you an energy boost, too.” Emily nodded as he depressed it against her neck. Dr. Joseph then patted her shoulder. “You call my office as soon as you know what you’d like to do, all right?”

Emily nodded again, spit out something that might’ve resembled a “thank you,” then bolted from the office, opening her comm with trembling hands and finding Josh’s frequency.

“Emily Beckett to Joshua Pike. Josh, ditch class and meet me at the diner. It’s important.”

An hour later, a waitress at a diner in Mojave, California got very irritated when one of those two lovesick adolescents dropped a coffee cup on the tile floor and she had to clean up the broken shards from under their table.

A day later, Josh curled up behind a numb and confused Emily, putting a protective hand over her belly. “I’ll marry you,” he offered weakly.

A month later, they eloped, moved into a one bedroom apartment the size of a postage stamp, and started shopping for discount cribs and maternity clothes.

It got really chilly at night and the neighbors were noisy assholes who smoked lots of pot and had screaming sex, but Emily and Josh loved it anyway. After all, they were young and in love, so who cared?

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The newsvids said that the first weekend of the new year would be the coldest the Mojave desert had seen in more than a hundred years, so naturally, Emily’s body decided that Friday night was a perfect time to go into labor. For lack of their own car, they took a cab to the hospital, Josh realizing too late that he’d have to owe the driver for this one.

Labor was long and arduous, even with the benefit of twenty-third century medicine – her baby, the doctors and nurses told her, was just not in a very cooperative position.

 _Great,_ Emily thought between contractions, _the kid’s already stubborn._

The nurses pulled out all the tricks in their bag to make it easier. They helped Emily move around. They helped her change position on the bed. They told Josh where to press on Emily’s hips to give the baby more room to rotate independently. Finally, two doctors came in and tried to physically reposition the baby, which _hurt like fuck_ and which Emily tearfully begged them not to do again, so they didn’t.

As she labored, it started to sink in for Emily exactly how young she really was, how young her husband really was, how absent her parents were, how much pain she was in, how frightened she was, _oh god oh god oh god I’m not ready I’m not ready for this._

The doctors started talking about a C-section, and the baby – perhaps hearing that conversation as a threat – finally decided to cooperate a little bit.

Emily and Josh’s son was born obstinate: feet first, face up, and deafeningly quiet.

“It’s a boy,” a nurse pronounced.

“Is he okay?” Emily asked, panicked, noting the absence of cries.

No one answered her.

The doctor whisked him to an incubator, trying to get a better look at him under better light. The baby squeezed his eyes shut and wrinkled his brow, agitated by the brightness.

Then, to the doctor’s bemused confusion, the newborn boy opened his mouth and, instead of crying, heaved a world-weary sigh.

The doctor laughed wryly at the already long-suffering baby, nodding back to the young, scared parents. “He’s fine.” The doctor turned back to his nurse. “Time of birth 0511 hours. Male infant, 3.487 kilos. One minute Apgar…huh. Can I give this kid an extra point for grimace?”

Thus the Pike family was born.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started when they came home from the hospital. Emily walked into their apartment, a little dazed, carrying the little boy they’d named Christopher; Josh was behind her. For lack of a second bedroom, the front room served as their nursery, Chris’ crib taking center stage in the room, a battered, secondhand changing table in the corner.

Emily gently set Chris down in his crib, watching as his little body naturally starfished out, and looked down at him with trepidation.

 _New mothers,_ the books had said, _should be in bliss at this stage._

Emily didn’t know what she was feeling right now, but _bliss_ it wasn’t.

Instead, when she looked at Chris, she felt completely overwhelmed, a combination of angry and sad and scared and jumpy, all covered by a thin layer of numb.

Josh’s footsteps rounded the corner from the kitchen. “I’m gonna go get your bag from Dad’s car.”

He got as far as putting his hand on the doorknob before Emily cried _“No!”_

Josh whirled around, alarmed. “What?”

“Don’t…” Emily looked between Josh and the baby’s crib. “Don’t leave.”

Josh’s frown grew. “Baby, I’m just going down to get your bag. It’ll only take a second.”

Emily wrapped her arms around her middle protectively, looking back at Chris’ crib.

“Em,” Josh said softly, putting a hand on her back, “he’s three days old. He’s not gonna hurt you.”

“I _know_ that,” Emily snapped.

Josh paused for a few beats, waiting for elaboration that never came. Then, he repeated, “I’m gonna go get your bag. I’ll be right back.”

When he came back to the apartment two minutes later, bag in tow, Emily was standing right where he left her, looking at the crib with an inscrutable look on her face.

It started to dawn on Josh that something might be wrong.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Emily told him she was pregnant, Josh dropped out of college – there’d be no disposable income for education left if they were raising a child – and took a job doing contract construction work for Starfleet up at the Mojave Air and Space Port. It was pretty brutal work, but it was union, so the hours were regular and the pay was fair (even if he did have to work seven days a week in order to make ends meet). After Chris came, their money was stretched that much thinner, even with what public assistance they could get, so Josh took on a second job, tending bar a few nights a week.

For the first couple of months after Chris was born, Josh would come home from work achy and exhausted to find Emily curled on her side, asleep in bed. Chris would, on most days, be fine; others, though, Josh would come home to find him crying in his crib, wet or hungry or just in need of contact.

“I think you’re depressed,” Josh told Emily gently one night, when he came home to Emily in the fetal position and Chris screaming his head off. When Josh had picked Chris up to soothe him, Chris had immediately begun rooting on his father’s neck, searching fruitlessly for food.

Emily said nothing, but curled her back a bit tighter.

“Tomorrow I think you should call your doctor.”

“Okay,” Emily said flatly.

She didn’t call her doctor the next day. Or the day after that. On the third day, Josh faked the flu and called in sick, then called Dr. Joseph’s office for her. Dr. Joseph told them to come down – _now._

Dr. Joseph diagnosed Emily with “significant” postpartum depression and prescribed her an antidepressant. He expressed considerable concern that her mood seemed to be leading her to neglect her baby, and so he asked to see her back in two weeks, if not sooner. “If this isn’t helping,” he said gently, “we may need to look at other treatment options.”

Emily hunched her posture. Josh just stroked the baby fine hairs on Chris’ head.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a while, the antidepressants helped. Emily seemed more like the girl Josh fell in love with – a little more upbeat, a little sharper, better able to take care of Chris when Josh was away. Dr. Joseph had also had the idea to recruit someone to help her during the day while Josh was working; ‘Fleet daycare would only accept babies a year or older, so that option was out for a little while. Josh’s father, Vince, mercifully volunteered to help, and the extra pair of hands really helped her to function better.

At first.

Vince came to the apartment one morning to find Chris’ eyes tracking his mother’s movements from his crib. Emily was in the kitchen, muttering to herself; the floor was littered with packaged foods from their pantry – soups, rice, beans, pasta – and she was clearing each shelf with a certain amount of vigor.

“Emily?” Vince chanced.

Emily looked up sharply. “What?”

Vince walked a little closer. “Is everything okay?”

Emily frowned, going back to her work. “Fine,” she said shortly, “except your son doesn’t know how to organize a cupboard.”

“Are you looking for something?” Vince asked mildly.

“No,” Emily shot.

Vince tried to suppress the nagging thing in his brain. “Has Chris eaten?”

 _“Yes,_ Vince, I’ve been caring for my son properly,” Emily answered snappishly.

Vince blinked, then walked over and picked Chris up, provoking a smile from the little boy as he sat down in the old armchair. Emily stayed in the kitchen, furiously setting down stacks of consumables on the countertops.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, when Vince came over, Emily was still in bed, and she didn’t leave for the entire day.

Josh didn’t know what to do.

He took yet another sick day, called Dr. Joseph’s office again, managed to get Emily dressed, and dragged her back down to the Desert Medical Plaza.

“I think we’re a little outside of my scope,” Dr. Joseph admitted. “I want to help you, but I’m a family physician who doesn’t specialize in mental health; I don’t know that I’m really equipped to meet your needs. I’d like to refer you to a psychiatrist.”

Dr. Joseph’s office manager called the psychiatrist’s office, and the family – Emily, Josh, and Chris, strapped in a carrier to Josh’s chest – were there that afternoon.

Emily was in the office with the psychiatrist for what seemed like an inordinately long time. Finally, she called for Josh to join them.

“I’m quite confident that Emily has bipolar disorder,” the psychiatrist said gently.

Emily seemed to shrink in on herself, shifting her eyes to look at Chris, who met her eyes curiously, as if seeing her for the first time.

“I’d like to change her current antidepressant to a different one and add in a mood stabilizer, plus a short-acting anxiolytic for acute periods of anxiety. My hope is that these medications will get her feeling better within the next few weeks.”

Chris, peering at his mother from the carrier on his father’s chest, blew bubbles against Josh’s shoulder.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Josh came home from work exhausted. An eight-hour day at the spaceport had turned into a twelve-hour one, and he’d had to go straight from there to the Sure Thing, where he’d tended bar until one. All he wanted right now was a hot shower, a microwaved chicken cacciatore, to kiss his son on the forehead, and to go to bed.

Instead, he found himself ambushed as soon as he got in the door. Emily’s lips were firm and fast against his, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hands curled into his hair.

Josh managed to break away for breath. “Em, wha – ” And then she was on him again, tugging at his jeans, running her fingers under his shirt. He pulled back again. “Emily, stop, what are you – ”

Emily’s eyes were feral. “Don’t be coy; you’re the one who taught me how to do this in the first place, remember?” She unceremoniously pulled off her t-shirt and tugged Josh closer to her.

Josh’s expression went from confused to alarmed. “Em, Chris is _right there,”_ he admonished in a hushed voice, nodding to their one-year-old’s sleeping form on the daybed by the window.

Emily just laughed, tugging on Josh’s fly. “Please. With Barbara and Chloe next door, he’s already got all the sex education he’s ever going to need.” She kissed him again.

“Jesus, Emily,” Josh hissed, “what’s gotten into you?”

Emily’s gaze morphed quickly from aroused to annoyed. _“Nothing,”_ she snapped. “I just want sex with my husband. Is that a _crime?”_

Josh pushed her by the shoulders into their bedroom, lest Chris wake up and hear any of this. “This isn’t like you. I don’t know what to do with you when you’re like this.”

Emily reclined on the bed. “You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

Josh looked at her carefully. “Did you take your medication today?”

Something rapidly shuttered behind Emily’s eyes. “I knew it,” she hissed, “I fucking _knew_ you’d start throwing _that_ back in my face one day!”

“Who’s throwing anything in anybody’s face? I just asked you a question!”

“I’m so _dreadfully_ sorry that it’s such an inconvenience that your wife is _crazy,”_ Emily shouted, tugging on a t-shirt from their dresser and storming out of their bedroom toward the front door. “So much so that you won’t even _touch_ her when she’s _throwing_ herself at you. _Jesus,_ Josh.”

Josh chased after her. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Well, if you’re not going to fuck me when I’m begging for it, _I’ll find somebody who will!”_ she shouted.

The door slammed behind her. Chris sat up in the daybed and gave a startled shout. He looked around, panicky, his confused eyes landing on his father.

Josh went over to Chris, running a hand down his back, shushing, gently urging him back to sleep. Then he called and woke up his father.

“Dad, I’m scared,” he said, throat tightening up. “I don’t know what she’s doing or where she’s gone and I’m just scared.”

Vince Pike wiped the sleep from his eyes, then sat up. “I’m on my way, son.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“All right, lesson learned,” Dr. Wilcox said, making a notation on her PADD. “Staprexagine is not the right drug for Emily.”

Emily was curled into a ball on the couch. Josh’s hands were folded in front of him.

“I know this was pretty dramatic,” Dr. Wilcox said gently, “but try not to get too discouraged. A lot of psychiatric medicine is trial and error. There’s a solution somewhere; we just have to find it.”

Emily had no noticeable reaction to that statement. Josh just nodded morosely.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ulletropion made things better, for the most part. Emily still had more ups and downs than the average person, but on the whole, she seemed functional – far more than she had at any point since Chris had been born. She was functional enough to go to her appointments solo, to pick Chris up from daycare on the nights that Josh had to go straight to the Sure Thing, and to cook for herself and Chris.

Josh, needless to say, was ready to swear a life debt to whoever it was that had first synthesized ulletropion.

Emily was doing _so_ well, in fact, that she started talking about the possibility of getting a job. Neither of them wanted to languish in this little apartment forever, after all; but even with public assistance for things like diapers and Chris’ vaccinations and Emily’s medications, funds were extremely tight. If they had a little more income to play with, they might be able to get a bigger place, where Chris could have his own room.

Josh made the suggestion that perhaps Emily could take his shifts at the Sure Thing, plus a couple more every week. Tending bar was an easy enough skill to pick up, and if he could have those evenings free, he’d have the opportunity to pick up some extra shifts at the spaceport, where the pay was much better anyway.

For three blissful weeks, it worked beautifully.

Then, Josh went to pick up Chris from daycare, and he got a call on his comm from the Sure Thing.

“Josh Pike,” he greeted.

“Pike, where’s your wife?” It was Ray, the bar owner, shouting into his comm.

Josh checked the chronometer, something icy settling in his gut. “She’s not there?”

“No, she’s not fucking here,” Ray spat, “and I’m already down two folks on a Friday fucking night.”

“All right, chill out, Ray,” Josh snapped. “I’m sure she’s just sick and forgot to call in or something.” It wasn’t technically untrue. “Do you want me to come cover?”

“Don’t bother,” Ray said acidly. “And tell _her_ not to bother either. I don’t want to see her back here. Goddamn ditz.”

The comm went dead. Josh was left crouched next to Chris, who was concentrating exceptionally hard on printing numbers with a green crayon.

He took Chris home. Emily was in bed, awake. She didn’t make eye contact with Josh when he peeked in.

Josh made macaroni and cheese for Chris – it was all he could cook – and put him to bed.

“You missed work today,” he said to Emily on entering their bedroom.

Emily blinked at the wall.

“Ray doesn’t want you to come back.”

Emily blinked again.

“Emily, are you listening to me?”

Finally, Emily spoke, her voice hoarse. “I hear you, Josh.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Wilcox was massaging one temple.

“I’d like to bring in a colleague of mine,” she said. “I’m good, but Dr. Hayes is better.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another day, another drug, another failure, ad nauseum.

Josh came home one day to find Emily talking a mile a minute on the comm to someone he didn’t know, a course catalog from the community college open on the coffee table peppered with highlighter and circlings in red, an entire wall in their front room painted yellow. _There goes the security deposit._

The very next day, he came home and found her sitting in the bathtub, staring unseeing at the faucet.

“Why are you still with me?” she asked him softly.

There was a long pause.

“Because I love you,” Josh finally answered, because _I don’t know anymore_ seemed unnecessarily cruel.

He woke up in the middle of the night to find the other side of the bed empty. He went looking and found Emily on the floor by Chris’ bed in the living room, unpacking every single toy from the little chest at the foot of his bed, furiously unpacking it, then putting the toys back into it in a specific order. She was sobbing. Josh didn’t know how to stop her, or even if it was safe for him to, with her that close to Chris.

One particularly unsettling day, he found her with an ear pressed to the wall. The neighbors were holding a party.

“What are you doing?” Josh asked her wearily.

 _“Shh,”_ Emily hissed. “I heard my name. They’re talking about me.”

Josh couldn’t hear anything but glasses clinking and some laughter.

When Chris got left at preschool on a day Emily was supposed to pick him up, he reached the end of his tether.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Wilcox was standing, leaning back on Dr. Hayes’ corner desk, while Dr. Hayes sat center seat and talked with Emily.

Josh sat next to her, silent, only answering when he was prompted.

No, he hadn’t known about the other episodes of sexual indiscretion.

Yes, he’d absolutely noticed Emily had been sleeping more.

No, he hadn’t known Emily had been hearing voices.

Yes, he did have concerns about Chris’ safety around her.

At this, Emily snapped. “I love my son more than anything,” she spat. “I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Drs. Hayes and Wilcox exchanged a look. Dr. Hayes took off his glasses and leaned forward slightly, setting his PADD down.

“I know this isn’t going to be anybody’s favorite solution,” he said gently, “but I think it might be smart for us to start thinking about inpatient treatment.”

Emily and Josh both snapped their heads up.

“You…you want to _commit me?”_ Emily said dangerously.

“This would be voluntary,” Dr. Wilcox interjected. “You’d be under round-the-clock care, so we can determine what medications in what dosages might get your illness under the best control. It would also be useful to have help instantly available so that you don’t act quite this impulsively during a manic episode.”

Emily shook her head vigorously. “No. I can manage this at home. I’ll take more medication. I’ll go to therapy, whatever. Going to a – what, a sanitarium or something? I don’t need anything like that.”

Josh swallowed. “I think you do.”

Emily’s glare burned into Josh’s temple. “You want me out of your hair, is that it?”

“No,” Josh said, trying to keep his voice even, “but I also won’t risk Chris’ safety.”

 _“I love my son,”_ Emily said venomously. “I am _not_ going to _hurt_ my _baby._ Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“Emily, everybody in this room is listening to you and believes you,” Dr. Hayes said gently. “And while I’m sure you would never hurt your son intentionally, I don’t think you fully realize yet that sometimes this illness makes you do things that you otherwise wouldn’t. _You_ might be perfectly trustworthy. Your illness is not.”

“You promised me you’d never cheat on me again,” Josh interjected softly. “Then you got manic and you did. Then you promised again, on a downswing. Then you swung back up and you did it again.” He looked at Emily hard. “You already broke promises to me when you weren’t well. How can I be sure you won’t do that when it comes to Chris’ wellbeing, too?”

That, finally, seemed to give Emily pause. She swallowed thickly. “What kind of a mother abandons her baby like that? What good can I be to Chris if I’m not there to help raise him?”

“What good are you to him the way things are now?” Dr. Hayes countered, not unkindly.

Emily didn’t have a good answer to that.

“Em,” Josh pleaded, “don’t think about me. Don’t even think about you. Think about Chris and what’s best for him.”

Emily’s face crumpled. Josh reached out and rested a tentative hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“I think what’s best for your little boy is for his mother to get as healthy as she can,” Dr. Wilcox said, her voice very, very gentle. “What do you think?”

There was a pause. Then, Emily nodded.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emily was up before dawn, hearing the desert come back to life around her. She didn’t get out of bed. She just lay there, listening over the din of her thought processes.

_I don’t want to go I need to go I’m fine there’s nothing wrong everything’s wrong what about Chris what ABOUT Chris he needs his mother he needs you stable I’m sick I’m not sick what are they going to do to me there I’m fine I’m not fine I don’t want to go I need to go help me help me HELP ME –_

And then Josh woke up, urged her into the shower, and helped her into her clothes.

Emily’s father-in-law tiptoed into the apartment at some point while she was getting dressed – she had no idea when. Time either moved unbearably slow or insanely fast for her. A function, she was beginning to understand, of her fucked-up neurochemistry.

While Josh and Vince were loading her things into the car, Emily found herself sitting on the edge of the daybed in the living room, watching Chris as he slept there. He was hard asleep, his body curled tightly around his little blue teddy bear, the one that she’d bought for him at a thrift store when she was pregnant, that had been in his crib the day they brought him home. His little breaths were fluttering the fibers on the bear, making them shimmer a little in the low light filtering in through the curtains.

Emily heard Josh’s footsteps in the doorway of the room, but she didn’t turn away from her son, and Josh didn’t speak.

She reached out and ran a hand through the mess of thick blond curls on his head, stroking them away from his forehead, and then running a hand down his back, feeling his spine curl into her touch, like a cat asking for a pet. She wished, for a brief, selfish moment, that he’d wake up just then, that she’d be able to see those precious eyes, _Josh’s eyes,_ the crystalline blue that had captivated her when she’d first held him in the delivery room and that were steadily becoming more slate blue, on their way to being gray.

But then, no, because her son didn’t need to see this.

And that was why she had to leave.

They’d told her to think of what was best for her little boy. So she had, and this was it.

_God, I wish it wasn’t._

“Em,” Josh’s voice called, very softly. “We’ve gotta go.”

_No no no why are they making me go want to stay need to stay he needs his mother I’m his mother I’m fine I’m not fine I don’t want to go I need to go…_

Emily leaned down and buried her face in his curly hair, breathing deeply, begging the parts of her brain that hadn’t yet betrayed her to commit this scent to permanent memory, to never let her forget this, no matter how bad it got. She kissed her baby’s forehead, wiping away a tear that fell from her own face onto his.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, then followed Josh out of the apartment.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris woke up a couple of hours later, it was to… _the smell of bacon?_

Chris scooted down off the daybed and wandered into the kitchen, confused. Even in her most energetic moments, Mama couldn’t cook very well. And unless Dad had been taking night cooking classes instead of working, that wasn’t Dad either. Which could only leave…

“Grandpa?”

Grandpa turned around from the stove. “Hey, you!” he greeted with a smile, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. “I’m gonna drive you to school today. Want a waffle?”

Chris was still confused, but he put it in the back of his mind, because _waffles._

Midway through breakfast, he thought to ask, “Where’s Dad?”

Grandpa swallowed, then smiled gently at Chris. “He had some things to take care of before work. I think he’ll want to talk to you about it all tonight.”

Chris cut off a piece of waffle with his fork. That was a good enough answer for him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dad was never all that talkative when he drove Chris home from school, but this was unusual even for him. He looked distracted, sometimes looking over at Chris as if he just realized he was there. Chris figured Dad was just tired.

The apartment was quiet when they got home. Chris figured Mama was having one of her sleepy days, because he saw the box of mac and cheese by the stove when he hung up his coat.

“Um,” Dad said, wringing his hands, “come into the front room with me, Chris. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Am I in trouble?” Chris immediately asked.

Dad smiled a tight smile and shook his head. “No, son, you’re not in trouble. C’mon.”

Dad sat in the battered armchair and pulled Chris up into the chair next to him. Chris wiggled slightly in the seat, trying to get comfortable next to Dad’s bony hip.

“So,” Dad began, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure you know that your mom’s had some problems lately.”

 _Lately?_ Chris thought, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s been a problem for a while,” Dad continued, “honestly, since you were a baby. But it’s gotten worse in the past couple of years.”

Chris was silent. He knew this.

“So she went to a couple of doctors, and they told her that she was sick. Not ‘sick’ like when you get a cold, but sick in her head. There are some chemicals that don’t work the way they should in your mom’s brain.”

Chris looked up. Dad’s eyes were furtive and his speech slow and a little shaky, like he really didn’t know how to address this with a five-year-old boy.

“The doctors tried to give her some medicine to help the chemicals work better, but they didn’t work very well. So we talked about what else we could do to help her, and we all – your mom and her doctors and me – we all agreed that she should be in a place where doctors are there all the time in case she needs them.”

“Like when I went to the hospital?” Chris said, remembering when he had strep throat and his fever spiked so high that his mom rushed him to the ER at two in the morning, fearing he’d somehow caught Tarkalean flu.

“Yes, exactly,” Dad said, breathing a little sigh of relief at Chris’ extrapolation. “This place is a hospital, too, except it’s just for people like your mom, whose brains are a little different than the rest of us.” Dad paused, swallowed, and grabbed Chris’ hand. “She went there this morning. That’s why Grandpa had to take you to school today.”

“Okay,” Chris acknowledged. “When’s she coming home?”

Dad’s eyes closed. “I don’t know. She’s…” Dad pursed his lips, squeezing Chris’ hand. “She’s very, very sick, and we don’t know yet how much better she can get.”

Chris didn’t quite understand, but accepted it nonetheless. “Can we visit her?”

Dad winced. “Probably not a good idea right now, son.”

Something in the way his dad was acting made Chris feel like he was expected to cry, hearing all of this. But he didn’t _feel_ like crying. He didn’t really know _what_ he felt like, to be honest.

“What happens now?” Chris asked.

“Well, I talked to Grandma and Grandpa,” Dad said. “They’re gonna let us move in to the house with them. Just for a little while, until we can make it on our own.” Dad smiled – it looked kind of forced, even to the eyes of a five-year-old. “No more apartment! No more noisy neighbors!”

Chris had no notable reaction externally because he…well, he had no notable reaction internally, either.

Dad kissed the top of Chris’ head. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Chris had no reason not to believe his dad, but he did sort of wonder how Dad defined “okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chris’ grandparents lived in a ranch house along a comparatively isolated stretch of road in far northern Mojave. Though not incredibly large, it was a very nice house – though Vince was now retired, he had a decent pension, and Jackie came from money anyway – with a fairly open floor plan and natural light flooding every room. The place was also immaculate. Jackie took exceptional pride in maintaining a neat and tidy home.

Chris’ dad got his childhood bedroom back, just down the hall from his parents, and Vince set up the tiny attic to make a room for Chris. Chris, looking from the outside at how big the house looked, didn’t know what to do with that much space in which to breathe. It made his stomach do a funny little flip.

When they got out of the car in front of the house, Chris watched from behind as Dad kind of sagged at the sight of his father, who just clapped him on the shoulder and said something low that Chris couldn’t hear. Grandpa then crouched low to the ground and smiled at Chris.

“Hey, you,” he said softly.

Chris smiled shyly, fingers rolling the hem of his t-shirt.

Behind Grandpa, Dad passed by Grandma, who gave him a terse look that unsettled Chris.

Grandpa, perhaps sensing the tension behind him and Chris’ perception of it, nodded to a spot behind Chris’ shoulder. “See that jay back there?” Chris turned, distracted away from the dynamic between Dad and Grandma; a blue jay was sitting in a tree, calling to a mate. Grandpa whistled, responding to it.

Chris whipped his head back around. “How’d you do that?” he asked.

Grandpa grinned. “Taught myself all kinds of whistles.” He sat back on the stoop and patted the spot next to him; Chris sat by him, and Grandpa curled an arm around him. “That one’s for a jay.” Grandpa tried another one. “That’s a shrike. Little tougher for me to pull off.” His look turned a little sly, shifting his eyes back to the house only briefly, before leaning in to Chris, as if sharing a secret. “Wanna hear my favorite?”

Chris nodded.

The corners of Grandpa’s lips curled up. He stuck four fingers in his mouth and let out an almighty, ear-piercing whistle.

 _“Vince!”_ Grandma’s agitated shout came from inside the house.

Grandpa didn’t even look back to where she’d shouted – only at Chris, whose eyes were huge with delight.

“Can…can you teach me how to do that?”

Grandpa beamed. “You bet I can.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By dinnertime, Chris had been snapped at to use a coaster, stop swinging his legs under his chair, and speak up when his voice was too quiet for Grandma’s liking, and he was starting to wonder if the cool new room he got upstairs was really worth it. Worse than how mean Grandma was being to him, though, was how mean she was being to Dad, with snide little put-downs about dropping out of college and getting a girl knocked up (a phrase Chris was regrettably familiar with at five years old; say what you would about the old apartment, but it was certainly an _educational_ place).

Dad, for the most part, just sat and picked at his stew. Finally, he spoke, his voice falsely calm.

“I’m very sorry that I’ve disappointed and inconvenienced you by wanting what’s best for my child, Mother.”

“If you’d thought with the bigger head in the _first_ place, Joshua, you wouldn’t _have_ a – ”

 _“Jackie,”_ Grandpa cut her off in a quiet tone that brokered no argument. Grandma fell silent.

The silence that followed was deeply unpleasant. Chris had stayed silent during this exchange, with his eyes down at his bowl, chasing a pearl onion around in his stew and trying to sink into invisibility in his chair – _maybe if they can’t see me then they can’t be mean to me too._

“Don’t play with your food, Christopher,” Grandma snapped. “And sit up straight.”

_Then again, maybe not._

“Could you not speak to my son that way, please?” Dad asked quietly.

“In _my_ house – ” Grandma began _sotto voce,_ but Grandpa cut her off.

“Chris, meet me in your room in two minutes. I want to show you something.”

Chris _certainly_ didn’t have to be told twice to leave the table.

As promised, a couple minutes later, Grandpa came in and shut the door, then made his way over to the window next to Chris’ bed. Chris followed him, watching his hands.

“If you jimmy this lock here,” Grandpa pointed out, “like so,” he demonstrated, “then it’ll open right up onto the roof.” Chris watched as Grandpa steeled himself a little, then folded his lanky limbs in on themselves and climbed right out onto the flat roof of the house, before turning back and holding out a helping hand to Chris. “C’mon out, son.”

Chris tentatively grabbed Grandpa’s hand, then climbed out too, heeding Grandpa’s soft “watch your head” as he slipped through. Standing next to Grandpa, he looked down at the roof, then at the ground far below, before Grandpa prompted him, “Look up.”

Chris looked up, and he felt his eyes go wide, his mouth drop open, and a gasp leave his throat.

_Stars._

Hundreds of them – thousands – _millions_ – glittering in the sky, like bright little specks of glitter set against a blanket of navy blue velvet.

Grandpa smiled. “Nice thing about Mojave still being such an out-of-the-way place is that we don’t get much light pollution, especially here on the outskirts, so the stargazing’s pretty incredible here.” He lay down on his back on the roof, gesturing to Chris to do likewise.

Chris lay down too, let Grandpa put an arm around him, and kept his gaze fixated on the stars above them.

“You see those three stars right in a row there?” Grandpa asked, pointing to them and running a finger along the line. “That line is called Orion’s belt. The mighty hunter who foolishly dared to threaten Mother Earth.” He paused, then moved his hand over, tracing it in the sky again. “And you see that, there? How when you connect those stars together, it looks like a big scoop? They call that the Big Dipper.”

Chris couldn’t see it first, but then, oh, then he _could,_ he could see the scoop, the pattern in the sky, and _oh,_ it was beautiful.

Grandpa kept looking through the sky, then let out a little puff of a laugh. “It’s really faint, really hard to see, but there,” he pointed to a section of sky; Chris couldn’t even determine what he was pointing at, “I _think_ that’s the constellation Capricorn, your astrological sign.”

“My what?”

Grandpa laughed. “Some old superstitious nonsense your grandmother believed in when she was young,” he answered. “She’d say Capricorn’s the constellation you were born under.” He moved his hand slightly, and traced another blurry line in the sky, connecting a few more stars together. “That’s Sagittarius, my sign. It’s supposed to be a centaur.”

Chris frowned. “I don’t see it.”

Grandpa sighed. “Yeah, me either, buddy,” he chuckled. He squinted, then pointed way over to their right. “You see that really shiny thing, really close to the horizon?”

Chris nodded, then his eyes grew big. It looked like a bright jewel, pulsing and twinkling. “It’s moving!”

Grandpa nodded. “That’s Earth’s Spacedock. That’s the first place people usually go when they leave Earth. When I went up on the Slayton and the Challenger, I had to go to Spacedock first.”

Chris turned to his grandfather and gaped. “You went into _space?!”_

Grandpa looked at Chris. “Your dad never told you that?” he asked, mildly incredulous. “Yeah. I did two tours of duty in engineering on the old NX class starships.” He turned his gaze back to the stars, looking at them fondly. “Best few years of my life,” he said softly. Chris watched him swallow before Grandpa spoke again, back in a conversational tone. “I think Tellar Prime’s somewhere in that direction,” he pointed, “and I _know_ Vulcan’s out _that_ way,” he pointed again, then looked at Chris. “I’m betting you haven’t met many aliens yet, have you?” Chris shook his head, and Grandpa continued under his breath, “Yeah, not exactly a paragon of diversity, Mojave.”

Chris curled a little closer into Grandpa, not taking his eyes off the stars. “What’s it like?” he asked softly. “Space, I mean.”

“Incredible,” Grandpa answered with a sad looking smile on his face. “You think it’s beautiful from here? It’s a million times more breathtaking when it’s all around you, covering you like a blanket. You get to see things nobody else has ever seen before. Help people you didn’t even know existed the day before. Turn new, alien things into familiar ones. It’s a little scary sometimes, but it’s so, _so_ exciting, being able to open up all the little tiny cracks in the universe and peek inside at them.” Grandpa sighed and swallowed audibly. “Best few years of my life,” he repeated.

Chris kept looking up at the endless, beautiful star-spangled night sky, at once cold and distant and warm and familiar, quiet, unobtrusively there, somehow ever-changing and permanent at the same time.

Grandpa looked over and saw the look on Chris’ face. He knew what that meant.

“You wanna go up there someday?”

Chris reached up a hand to the glitters in the sky, feeling the desert air on his hand and wishing he was close enough to touch. He didn’t respond out loud. He just grinned.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was early on a Saturday morning. Chris was awake, but still in bed, listening to the voices of Grandma and Grandpa downstairs. 

“Believe me, if there’s one thing you’ve made _abundantly_ clear, Jackie, that’s it,” Grandpa was saying. “But your relationship with Josh is toxic enough as it is. They’re _living_ here now; do you really want to add more fuel to that fire?”

Grandma’s tone was icy. “The decision for them to move in was not mine, you might recall.”

“I already apologized to you for making that call unilaterally, but I’m not going to feel bad about helping out my family when they’re in crisis.” Grandpa sounded exasperated. “Josh is still trying to figure out how to be a dad in the first place, let alone one by himself while he’s working two jobs; he needs help raising this boy, and I’m going to give it to him.”

“Joshua made his own bed, and he can lie in it,” Grandma spat. Chris curled in on himself a little. “I was brought up to deal with the consequences of my actions – ”

“That _consequence_ is a _five-year-old boy,”_ Grandpa interrupted.

“ – and I neither agree with nor can I support your continuing to enable him.”

“Enable him to – what? Be a good father?”

Grandma paused. “It was his own stupid mistake,” she said, almost too softly for Chris to hear. “Josh has used up all his handouts from me.”

There was a pause. “Okay, I give,” Grandpa said. “You want to continue poisoning your relationship with your only child? I guess I can’t stop you. God knows I’ve been trying to for twenty-five years; you’d think I’d learn by now to just back off and let you two go at each other.” Another pause. “But don’t you dare – don’t you _dare_ – take it out on Chris.”

Grandma was silent.

“You’re treating him with the same disdain you’re treating Josh, and you’re making him feel terrible. He’s _five years old,_ Jackie. Whatever crime you want to accuse Josh of – getting his girlfriend pregnant, dropping out of college, hell, hooking up with a woman with mental problems in the first place – Chris is innocent of all of that. He’s a little boy, he’s a good kid, and he’s your _grandson._ Stop punishing him.”

Their conversation fell too soft for Chris to hear anything other than murmurs. He lay there for a long time listening to the drone of their voices.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Grandpa?” Chris asked one evening as they sat on the roof.

“Hmm?” Grandpa responded, turning to Chris.

Chris cuddled a little closer to Grandpa’s side. “Why doesn’t Grandma like me?”

Grandpa was struck dumb for a moment, then put a strong arm around Chris and pulled him close, kissing the top of his head. “Oh, Chris.”

It didn’t escape Chris’ attention that Grandpa didn’t deny it.

“I’m sure you know that your grandma and your dad don’t get along very well,” Grandpa finally said. Chris nodded. “They never really have, even long, long before you came along. They’re just really different. But when your dad got into college, it looked like maybe they could get along a little better.” Grandpa swallowed; he looked like he was trying to figure out how best to say it. “When…when your dad found out that you were on the way, he decided not to go to college anymore, so he could work and take care of you and your mom. Your grandma was pretty upset about that. She still is, and sometimes it comes out in ways it shouldn’t. And on people it shouldn’t, like you.”

“So it’s my fault Grandma and Dad are mad at each other?” Chris summarized.

“No,” Grandpa said immediately. “No, and I want you to remember that, okay? This isn’t about you at all. This is about them. Sometimes you just get caught in the crossfire between them, and that’s not fair.”

Chris plucked lightly at one of the buttons on Grandpa’s shirt. “She acts like she’s mad at me all the time. Makes me feel scared.”

Grandpa’s grip on Chris’ shoulder got a little tighter. “I’m so sorry, Chris. I’m so, so sorry.” Grandpa just rocked him for a second before he continued. “Your grandma’s never been very good with kids – not even with your dad. She didn’t have a really good relationship with her mom and dad, and I think it made her grow up a little too fast to know how to connect with kids. It really hurt her relationship with your dad, and I’m _so_ sorry it’s hurting her relationship with you, too.” He stroked Chris’ hair. “She just doesn’t know how to do this.”

Chris looked up at Grandpa. “Why are you married to her?”

Grandpa’s eyes shuttered a little. “Because I love her,” he answered absently, almost as if it was more out of habit than truth.

Chris didn’t know how much he trusted the words, but he did trust the man saying them, so he let it go.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was eight the time he hid on the roof all evening while Grandma and Dad had a screaming match. When he finally tiptoed back inside to go to sleep, the only voices he could hear were Dad’s and Grandpa’s.

“Why are you still married to her?” Dad demanded of Grandpa.

“Why are you still married to Emily?” Grandpa countered.

If a response to that question came, Chris didn’t hear it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris came home from school, Dad was there, unexpectedly, with a woman, even less expectedly. He stood inside the front door for a moment, looking at the two of them laughing on the couch, and cocked his head to the side curiously.

Dad noticed him with a start.

“Oh, god, son, sorry, didn’t see you there,” Dad babbled. “Um. This is Kerrie. She works with me down at the bar. Your grandpa’s got my car so she’s gonna give me a lift.”

Chris tactfully didn’t mention that Dad didn’t have to be at the bar until seven, and it was barely four now, and also, why wasn’t he at the spaceport right now when he was supposed to work until six?

Dad audibly swallowed. “Kerrie, this is my son, Chris.”

Kerrie was petite and blonde and gave a friendly smile with impeccable teeth. “Hi, Chris. Nice to meet you.”

Chris smiled tightly back at her, eked out a “hi,” and skirted up to his room quietly. Dad didn’t seem to notice.

A couple of hours later, Chris took a break from physics homework to go to the kitchen and get a drink. He got as far as the edge of the living room before he saw Dad and Kerrie making out on the couch.

Chris felt his heart do a weird lurch of surprise. He tiptoed out slowly, went back to his room, and climbed onto the roof, leaving his physics homework abandoned on his bed.

He couldn’t understand what he was feeling or why, but he didn’t like it. At all. It was a weird, icky feeling, something that made him want to curl into a ball and thrash and kick all at the same time. It was confusion of the _what the hell?_ variety; it was anger of the _why are you doing this to Mom?_ variety; it was apprehension of the _what the hell does this mean for me?_ variety; it was something else he couldn’t identify.

Maybe it was just that he lacked the vocabulary to explain it; more likely there weren’t really words for this specific kind of disquiet. Maybe a language other than Standard would say it better.

The sky got dark as he sat there, brooding in a highly adolescent-boy-specific way. Ultimately, Grandpa stuck his head out the window.

“Hey. You hungry? Grandma made meatloaf.”

Chris numbly shook his head. “No thanks.”

Concerned, Grandpa climbed out on the roof and sat down next to Chris. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

On the whole, Chris thought he was a better than average liar, but he was _hopeless_ at lying to Grandpa. He shook his head. “I’ll be all right,” he said, trying to cover himself. That part, at least, he thought was true.

Grandpa frowned and put an arm around Chris’ shoulders. “There something you need to talk about?”

“I don’t…” Chris paused. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Grandpa squeezed Chris’ shoulder. “Okay.” They turned back to the stars.

Grandma called them both on the carpet later for letting their dinner go cold.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days passed. Chris and Grandpa were playing chess in the study. Grandpa was fiddling with his bishop when Chris blurted it out.

“Did my parents get a divorce?”

Grandpa looked up at Chris sharply. There was a long pause.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, they did.”

Chris blinked, processing this. “When?”

Grandpa was looking at him as if surprised that this was news to Chris. “A couple of years ago. You were nine.”

Chris nodded, not bothering to ask why the hell nobody told _him_ that, because the surprise on Grandpa’s face told him that he wouldn’t have a good answer to that question. “Oh,” he said instead, turning back to the board and not seeing a damn thing.

“Your dad never told you that?” Grandpa clarified. When Chris shook his head, Grandpa let out a breath of exasperation. “Okay, well, I’ll yell at him for _that_ later.” He looked back at Chris and gentled his voice a little. “Is this about Kerrie?”

Chris nodded again.

Grandpa sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and then steepling his fingers in front of him. “How much do you really remember about your mom?”

Considering the question, Chris was mildly surprised to realize both that the answer was _not much_ and that his disquiet didn’t actually have a lot to do with his mother. “Not a lot,” he said slowly. “But…that’s not really the point, I don’t think.” He paused, chewing on his thumbnail the way Grandma had told him not to do a hundred times. “I dunno. It’s just weird…thinking about Dad being with _anybody._ It feels like someone snuck into my life while I was sleeping and changed all the locks.”

Grandpa nodded sympathetically. “I get it,” he said. “Do you like Kerrie?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t really know Kerrie,” he answered. “She seemed okay, I guess.”

Grandpa let out a little puff of a laugh. “I don’t know her that well either,” he admitted, “but I agree, she seemed nice enough when I met her.” He gave Chris a gentle smile. “I know it’s a change, and I know it’s hard to get used to. Especially when you didn’t know about the divorce.” Grandpa’s voice dropped to a muttered _“good god, Josh”_ before becoming conversational again. “But listen, try not to lose too much sleep over it, okay? Your dad’s a smarter guy than we give him credit for.”

Chris smiled.

“They’re just dating,” Grandpa said. “No big deal. They’re not getting married.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We got married!”

Chris, Grandma, and Grandpa were all sitting around the dinner table, just staring, as if Dad had spoken a language not even close to Standard. Kerrie grinned next to Dad, a hand on his bicep, a thin gold band on her finger.

Grandpa recovered first. “You did _what?”_

Dad nodded enthusiastically. “We eloped yesterday!”

Chris recovered second. He looked at Kerrie. “Are you pregnant?”

_“Christopher Vincent!”_

Apparently, Grandma recovered third.

Kerrie just laughed. Dad paled a few shades, turning to Kerrie and hissing, “You’re not, are you?”

Kerrie smacked Dad in the stomach, then turned back to Chris. “No, Chris, I’m not pregnant.”

Chris nodded. “Oh.” He stabbed a floret of broccoli with a tiny touch more venom than he otherwise might have.

Grandpa was just staring at Dad, his eyes flashing in a way Chris hadn’t ever seen them before. “You did _what?”_ he repeated.

Dad sighed. “Come on, Dad. You heard me the first time.”

Grandpa buried his head in his hands. “Oh Jesus Christ, Josh.”

“Elbows off the table, Vince.”

“Jackie, _I swear to god.”_

Chris swallowed. “May I be excused?”

Grandma was clearly about to say “no,” probably with a commentary on how he’d barely finished half of his meal, but Grandpa got there first, saying, “I think that’s an _excellent_ idea.”

Chris had never bussed his plate and scooted out of sight so fast.

He got ready for bed, then tried – really, he did! – to focus on _Fahrenheit 451._ But, well, voices carry.

“You’ve known her for _two months,_ Josh. Chris has met her _once._ What is going through your head right now?”

Chris heard his dad scoff. _“What is going through my head_ …I love Kerrie, okay? I want to be with Kerrie. I wanted to marry Kerrie, so I did.” He paused for dramatic effect. _“The end._ What’s so difficult about this?”

“What about your son?”

Dad’s voice went a shade darker. “What _about_ my son?”

“Well, most fathers consult their children before they make a decision as huge as marrying someone else. Most fathers would probably also find this especially important when the child in question just found out _a month ago_ that his father getting married to someone else was even _a legal possibility.”_

“I told you I was sorry about that – ”

“Why are you apologizing to _me?”_ Grandpa shot back. “Chris is the one you left in the dark for two years. I would love to see you once, just _once,_ put your son first.”

“Hey,” Dad snapped. “I get that you’re pissed about Kerrie, but don’t you _dare_ call my parenting into question. I’ve been putting that boy first since the day Emily told me she was pregnant. I’m _exhausted.”_ Dad paused, and Chris could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “I just wanted something – just _one thing_ – that could be all mine.”

Chris heard the resounding _slap_ of Grandpa’s palm against the kitchen table. “I’ve got a _royal newsflash_ for you, my boy: That’s not how this works. _Any of it._ You wanted something to be all yours, so you got yourself a wife – _and now she’s Chris’ stepmother._ Don’t you get it, Josh? Every _single_ decision you make affects him. Everything you do, and everything you _don’t_ do. Nothing is _just yours_ anymore. Not when you have a child.” There was another pause, and then Grandpa continued. “I get it. There’s a lot of this you didn’t ask for. Chris was a surprise; Emily got sick. I really do get that you got cut a raw deal about this in a lot of ways. But that does _not_ absolve you of responsibility here.”

Chris rolled over in bed, feeling the sharp bloom of shame on the back of his neck. He was a kid, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew his mom and dad were really young when they had him, that he hadn’t been wanted, and that he kind of threw a wrench into everybody’s plans simply by existing. It didn’t make it any easier for him to hear about it, though.

It’s why he tried to be a good kid. He tried to do well in school, be respectful at home, keep his room neat, and stay quiet, all because he knew he’d already been enough of a burden on Dad.

As it was, when Chris thought about it more thoroughly – how much would this change things, really? He already didn’t see much of Dad. He still felt weird about it, mostly because he was still getting used to the idea of having divorced parents (let alone a remarried one), but on a practical, day-to-day level…what would be different, honestly?

Other than coming home and having to be a good kid for Kerrie, too.

He just hoped they wouldn’t move out of the house. He really didn’t want to leave Grandpa.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The strain of living in a house with her new husband’s parents, one of whom was seething over her son’s decision to marry her and the other of whom just seemed to have a permanent stick up her ass, compounded by the minefield that was trying to navigate being a stepmother to an eleven-year-old boy she’d just met, proved overwhelming for Kerrie. A couple of months after their elopement, she quietly filed for divorce and moved out without saying goodbye.

Nobody seemed surprised.


	3. Chapter 3

A cursory look in the mirror told him that Chris was _woefully_ out of his depth in this area.

He looked hopelessly from the mirror, to the product on the vanity, to his own hands, which still reeked of that sharply floral cosmetic stink.

He’d been _trying_ for some kind of “effortlessly chic” appearance. What he _got_ was “my hair looks oily enough to fry an egg in it.”

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, turning on the tap and trying to wash it off his hands. _“Stupid.”_

Outside the cracked bathroom door, Grandpa first walked by, then stopped, leaned back, and looked in, raising an eyebrow bemusedly.

“Chris?”

Chris froze, eyes growing wide. _Oh no._

“What…exactly…have you gotten yourself into there?”

Making a silent concession that at least it was Grandpa, and not Dad or (god forbid) Grandma, Chris opened the door a tiny crack more and let him in. Grandpa looked Chris up and down, then looked to the array of products scattered all over the bathroom, then back to Chris.

“It’s picture day,” Chris lied, and poorly at that.

“Oh, _picture day,_ right,” Grandpa said, making a show of looking at the contents-under-pressure label on a can of mousse. “Silly me, I thought they always did that at your school in November.”

“… _Spring_ picture day?” Chris tried.

Grandpa gave a conciliatory nod. “Okay.” Then he opened the medicine cabinet and started putting Chris’ small army of product back where it belonged. “Chrissy’s got a crush,” he singsonged under his breath without looking up.

Chris whipped his head around so fast that a wayward slick of gel hit the doorframe. _“Grandpa!”_

Grandpa leveled him a look too shrewd to bear. Chris felt his face heating in a hurry and looked down, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“So, who is it?” Grandpa asked gently.

Chris was silent for a moment, engaged in a protracted and _incredibly_ embarrassing cost/benefit analysis, before he finally mumbled something even he couldn’t understand.

“Come again?”

Chris looked up and caught Grandpa’s eye; he was smiling gently, encouragingly. Chris sighed. “Her name’s Kate. She’s in my trig class.”

Grandpa’s smile grew. “Kate in your trig class, huh? She nice?”

Chris nodded.

“She smart?”

Nod.

“She pretty?”

Aggressive nod.

Grandpa laughed. “All right, well,” he said, picking up a fine-toothed comb and a washcloth, “let’s get to salvaging this, shall we?”

Grandpa started on Chris’ hair, but Chris just looked at Grandpa’s reflection in the mirror. “You’re not gonna tell anybody, are you? Dad or Grandma or anybody?”

“Tell them what?” Grandpa said neutrally. “I didn’t hear a thing. Good lord, son, you’ve used about twice the mousse you should’ve up here.”

Chris was ten minutes late to school, but _damn,_ he showed up looking smart.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last time Josh had sat in the counselor’s office at Mojave Junior High School, he’d been Chris’ age and in trouble for snapping Lauren Washington’s bra during history class. His father had been sitting beside him then, too, though with a far less serene expression on his face then.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” Josh said quietly.

“I know,” Vince replied, “but I spend more time with Chris than anybody. I’m curious to see what they’ve got to say.”

Parent-teacher conferences were usually an optional thing, conducted only for children with individual educational plans, behavioral problems, or who were obviously struggling in a specific area and might need some extra attention. Neither Josh nor Vince could think of how any of those categories might apply to Chris, so it was something of a surprise when his guidance counselor, Ms. Doyle, asked to see Josh. He and Vince had been trying to pry out of Chris why she might want to talk with them, but Chris was (or seemed to be) equally baffled by it, and had chewed his nails straight past the quick trying to think of how he might be in trouble.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” a woman about Josh’s age said, coming into the office and sitting at the desk in front of Josh and Vince. “I’m Julia Doyle, Chris’ guidance counselor.”

Josh smiled tightly. “Josh Pike. I’m his father.”

Vince smiled more genuinely. “Vince Pike. I’m _his_ father.” He nodded to Josh.

Josh took a deep breath. “I think we’re all a little confused as to why we were called here today, Ms. Doyle – is Chris in any trouble?”

Ms. Doyle actually laughed. “Trouble? Good god, no. Chris is a model student. He’s calm, he’s a hard worker, he thinks outside the box. _That’s_ actually why I wanted to see you today.” She leaned forward on her desk. “Mr. Pike, your son’s teachers have talked with me about his progress, and they unanimously say that he’s one of the brightest minds they’ve come across in their careers.”

Josh’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Vince just shrugged. “Of course he is.”

Ms. Doyle smiled. “I looked through Chris’ file and it doesn’t look like he’s ever been formally assessed for intellectual ability, is that correct?”

“What, like an IQ test?” Josh clarified.

“Not really, no,” she corrected. “The kind of test I’m talking about doesn’t assign a numerical intelligence score. It’s not designed to assess intelligence itself, which is kind of a subjective concept, not to mention a speciesist one. No, this is more along the lines of assessing his actual aptitudes in various academic areas.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Our school psychologist could administer those assessments, if you wanted him to, but I really don’t need those kinds of hard and fast values to tell you that Chris is academically gifted.”

Josh looked over at his father. Vince was smiling proudly. “Can you tell us more about how you’re drawing that conclusion?” Vince asked.

Ms. Doyle opened up a file on her PADD. “‘A brilliant analytical mind.’ ‘Exceptionally talented at explaining complex concepts in plain Standard.’ ‘He particularly excels at physics and analytic geometry.’ These are all coming from his teachers.” She smirked. “He apparently despises chemistry, but grasps the concepts without a problem. He also appears to strongly favor the social sciences – psychology, anthropology, economics, political science.”

Josh just blinked. He’d had no idea his son was so bright. _How absent have I been?_

“What about skipping him a grade?” Vince asked.

Ms. Doyle took a deep breath and raised her eyebrows a little. “That’s an option,” she said, “but I have some hesitance about it.”

“Why’s that?” Vince asked.

Ms. Doyle flipped to a new file on her PADD. “There’s no question that Chris is extremely bright,” she said, “but his teachers do voice a certain amount of concern about his sociability.”

Josh frowned. “What does that mean?”

Again, Ms. Doyle read from the file on her PADD. “‘Very quiet – some might even say withdrawn.’ ‘Should be encouraged to come out of his shell more.’ ‘Has trouble forging more than academic connections with his peers.’” She set the PADD down. “If he’s struggling with social development, it might be that much more challenging for him to integrate with an older set of children than it is to socialize with his own peers.”

Josh sat up a little bit straighter, unable to keep historical alarm bells from going off in his mind. “Wait a minute. You said ‘withdrawn.’ Do you think Chris is depressed?”

“No, I don’t,” Ms. Doyle said confidently. “I think he’s shy, more emotionally mature than his classmates, and naturally serious. If I thought he was depressed, I would’ve opened with that, trust me.” She folded her arms on her desk. “As I said, the decision of what to do here is yours – and Chris’, of course. If you want to have him assessed, contact me and I’ll arrange it. If you’d like to discuss him moving to high school after this year, we can do that too, but I strongly encourage you to be frank with him about the social realities of that kind of decision. In the meantime, he needs to be academically challenged, both in school and at home.”

Vince beamed. “We can do that.”

Ms. Doyle shook both their hands and left the office. Vince turned to Josh, mildly incredulous.

“What is this look on your face, Josh?” he asked. “You just got told your boy is gifted. That’s _good_ news.”

Josh was pale. “He’s withdrawn. He can’t relate to others.” He laced his fingers on the back of his head and spoke to the floor. “My god, it’s just like Emily.”

_“No.”_ Vince’s voice was firm. “Josh, he’s _twelve._ He’s twelve, and he’s shy, and he’s awkward. Don’t pathologize this. We can work on his social skills with him, and some of this will just naturally come in time. He might never be a social butterfly, but Chris just being a shy kid does _not_ mean he’s like his mother.”

Josh scrubbed his face. “I wish I was so confident about that.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was sitting in his bedroom, futzing with the hem of his t-shirt, trying to tamp down the wellspring of anxiety that was bubbling up in his chest.

Abby Chester, from his psychology class, had invited him to her birthday party tonight. When he’d accepted the invitation two weeks ago, it had seemed so awfully far away – plenty of time for him to get over the inexplicable nervousness he felt about going to a party with people he barely knew. That same nervousness that seemed to be eating him alive right now.

“Chris?” Grandpa called, knocking on his door. “Can I come in?”

Chris nodded, before realizing Grandpa couldn’t see that. “Come in.”

Grandpa opened the door and smiled perceptively at Chris.

“I’m fine,” Chris preempted.

“Right,” Grandpa deadpanned, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning against Chris’ closet door. “The beads of sweat on your forehead are just from the heat.”

_“Ugh,”_ Chris groaned theatrically, throwing himself straight back on the bed. “Can’t do this. I’ll comm her, tell her I’m sick, get her present to her some other way.”

“No, you won’t,” Grandpa said firmly.

“Grandpa – ”

“Chris, you’re having an anxiety attack,” Grandpa interrupted. “We’re going to work that out, and then you’re going to honor your commitment and _go.”_

Chris shot him a glare without any real malice behind it.

“Now,” Grandpa said neutrally, “what’s this about?”

Chris turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “I’m not gonna know anybody there.”

“You know Abby.”

Chris shrugged. “One person. I’ll know one person.”

“Abby counts. And by the time you leave, you might know – brace yourself here – _more_ than just Abby.” Grandpa smiled gently. “That’s the point of a social activity. Getting to know others. Figuring out what you have in common with them, what you can talk about. Making connections.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” Chris let out a long breath. “It’s just not something I’ve ever been very good at. I feel weird about it.”

“Chris, you’re thirteen,” Grandpa said, sitting on the bed next to him. “You’re supposed to be awkward right now. Being good with people is a skill you have to practice just like anything else.”

Chris’ cheeks heated slightly. “What if they make fun of me?” he asked quietly.

Grandpa looked at him carefully. “Why would they do that?”

“Because I’m so quiet. Because I’m good at school. Because my skin’s not great. Because I’ve never had a girlfriend. Because I don’t have a lot of money. Because of what I’m wearing. Take your pick.”

Grandpa looked at Chris for a long time. Then, without comment, he got up and left Chris’ room. Chris looked up, confused, before Grandpa came back a minute later with something black draped over his arm.

Grandpa jerked his head, directing Chris to stand. “I’m pretty sure this’ll fit you.”

He slipped a black leather jacket over Chris’ shoulders. It smelled like Grandpa – kind of peppery and warm – and was in good shape, though obviously well-worn. A small patch on the left breast read _Pike_ in red letters.

Chris looked in the mirror, and… _wow._

It wasn’t magic. He still looked like himself, like dorky awkward teenage Chris Pike. But also… _better_ than that.

“Nobody’s dumb enough to make fun of a guy in a leather jacket,” Grandpa said, squeezing Chris’ shoulders.

Chris grinned. Grandpa grinned back at him in the mirror.

“It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Chris nodded. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The party was…interesting.

First of all, somebody spiked the punch, which was an… _unusual_ choice, for a fifteen-year-old’s birthday party. Chris couldn’t put his finger on it until he was already half a glass in, the bitter taste lingering on the back of his tongue, making him wince.

Predictably, he felt out of place. Most of Abby’s friends were older, and Chris felt small and immature by comparison. Abby herself was nice enough, but she was… _exuberant._ Not in a drunk way, either; just by virtue of her personality. (And a sugar high. The cake was no joke.)

He did get a handful of compliments on the jacket and sang silent hosannas to Grandpa for his foresight, making a mental note to ask him for the story behind it.

Strangest of all, though, was halfway through the evening, when Abby swung an arm around Chris’ shoulders and planted one on him, full on the lips, in front of everybody. Chris blushed furiously, and his skin prickled when he heard the cheers and wolf-whistles in the background.

She disappeared as soon as the liplock ended, leaving Chris with the distinct feeling that a tornado had just swept through his life.

Not _exactly_ how he’d envisioned his first kiss, but, well, all right then.

As the party died down, Chris commed Grandpa to tell him he was ready to come home. When there was no answer, he tried Dad. Still no answer. He waited a few minutes, watched a couple guests leave, had another Oreo, then tried again. Nothing, not on either frequency.

Odd.

When he was the last, very frustrated guest standing, Abby’s brother finally took pity on him and gave him a lift home.

He took one step in the front door and knew it immediately.

_Something bad has happened._

Grandma was sitting in the armchair, her back to Chris; he could see her arm propped up, elbow bent, hand in a fist. Dad was standing near the entrance to the kitchen, gaze on the floor, arms wrapped around his body protectively; a woman with a ponytail that Chris didn’t recognize was talking to him. Grandpa was curiously absent.

Dad looked up, made eye contact with Chris, and said, “Oh, god.”

Chris was frozen in the doorway, eyes wide.

Dad scrubbed his face with one hand, then walked over and ushered Chris into the kitchen, sitting him down at the table and crouching in front of him.

Chris blinked at Dad. “What is it?”

Dad held Chris gently by the shoulders of Grandpa’s leather jacket. It was probably the most affection Dad had shown him since the day his mother went to the hospital.

“Chris,” he said softly, “after he dropped you off, your grandpa was home for a little while when he said he was short of breath.”

Chris suddenly had a horrible, sickening, _no god no_ feeling that he knew where this was going.

“At first he didn’t think much of it, and neither did we, but…” Dad paused, swallowed, then continued. “Then he said… _god.”_

Dad seemed not to be able to continue. Chris knew the feeling; his tongue seemed to be quivering in his mouth. Finally, it cooperated and let him speak.

“Is Grandpa dead?” he said, his voice painfully close to a whimper.

Dad had tears in his eyes that he wasn’t letting fall. He nodded. “Chris, I’m so sorry. I know you and he were – ”

But Chris was up and moving before the sentence was finished.

_Move, move, move, don’t sit, don’t think, don’t dwell, just do._

Up to his room. Jimmying the lock on his window, just like Grandpa showed him how to do when he was five. Throwing the window open. Climbing out, settling into his spot, their spot.

Looking up.

The stars glittered above him.

Warm and cold. Close and far. Familiar and alien.

Constant. Constant. Constant.

_Breathe._

Grandpa teaching him how to whistle. Grandpa’s eyes twinkling at him across the chessboard. Grandpa’s hands, firm on his shoulders, face grinning at him in the mirror.

_It’s gonna be okay, son._

Grandpa smacking his hand down and imploring Dad to put Chris first. Grandpa not breathing a word when Chris had a crush on Kate or was worried about flunking chemistry or thought the kids at the party might make fun of him. Grandpa looking up to the stars, wistful, wondering, humbled, _longing._

_It’s gonna be okay, son._

The faint taste of booze in the punch. Abby’s lips pressing into his. The smell of Grandpa’s leather jacket around his shoulders, warm, close, familiar, _constant._

_It’s gonna be okay, son._

Chris didn’t cry. Instead, he just extended a hand up to the stars, wishing he could touch.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grandpa’s funeral happened a week later.

Vince had written his own obituary, which went up two days after he died. Devoted husband of Jacqueline, loving father of Joshua, proud grandfather of Christopher; teacher, explorer, engineer, friend; lover of mathematics, music, photography, and solving New York Times crossword puzzles in ink. The condolences started pouring in, not just from Mojave or even Earth but from all over the sector.

Chris realized with a start just how insulated his thinking had been. Grandpa had always been just Grandpa to him. He hadn’t realized – hadn’t even stopped to think – how much he’d meant to all the people he’d ever met who weren’t Chris.

Grandma insisted on holding a religious funeral, in spite of Grandpa’s vocal agnosticism. To make matters worse, she somehow thought it was a good idea to book some rookie from the seminary, whose eulogy contained a lot of “thees” and “thous” and talk about heaven and hell and a lot of other pageantry and circumstance that Grandpa would have rolled his eyes at.

Chris just picked a spot on the pew in front of him and stared, unseeing.

When the service was over, he tried to make himself invisible by melding with the floral arrangements at the front of the church.

He looked down, eyes glancing over the cards in the flowers. Amidst the daylilies and carnations from everyone from Starfleet admirals to people from Grandma’s book club, someone who hadn’t left their name had set a New York Times crossword puzzle on the dais, completely solved, in ink.

There was chicken-scratch handwriting across the top. _For Vince._

It was, very suddenly, too much to take.

Chris bolted from the church, faintly hearing Dad calling after him, and didn’t stop until he reached a Joshua tree a few hundred yards away, behind which he knelt in his best gray suit and retched until he couldn’t see straight.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d slept on the roof every night since Grandpa died. It felt like the life had been sucked out of the house, which, Chris supposed, was true – Grandpa was the glue keeping the family together, and without him there, Chris, Grandma, and Dad seemed to be wandering around like shards of glass, ready to slice and dice if provoked the wrong way.

It was an ugly, bitter feeling, just being in that shared space with them, whereas being up there with the stars made Chris feel something resembling normal, even as clouds rolled over the sparkles in the sky.

“I’m worried you’re gonna roll right off the damn house one of these nights,” Dad’s voice came from Chris’ bedroom window.

Chris turned sharply and glared at him, because that wasn’t _Dad’s_ spot, that was _Grandpa’s_ spot.

“Come inside,” Dad directed softly. “Please.”

Chris looked at him, then looked back to the stars, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t.”

Dad sighed. “I know how hard this is, Chris.”

“No you don’t,” Chris snapped.

Dad didn’t say anything, because Chris was right. Nobody knew the inside of Chris and Grandpa’s relationship except Chris and Grandpa.

“Look, you don’t have to come in right now. Stay out here as long as you want, just please come in when it’s time to sleep, okay?”

Dad left the window without shutting it.

There were a couple of beats in which Chris went back to looking at the stars. Then, he felt a drop on his face.

Then another.

A third.

More.

_Rain? In Mojave? In June?_

Chris looked up curiously as the rain slowly became steadier, then chuckled lowly.

“This your way of telling me you think I should go inside too, old man?” he asked the sky.

A rumble of thunder answered him. It sounded vaguely like Grandpa’s laugh.

Chris smiled up at the pouring sky, then went inside.


	4. Chapter 4

The fall that Chris was fourteen, almost fifteen, his path and that of Abby Chester crossed again, this time as partners in organic chemistry.

In November, he made a smartass remark _sotto voce_ that made her laugh, and he noted she had a pretty smile. In December, he had a brief battle with his ethics before letting her copy his homework, and she kissed him again for it, this time with tongue. In January, he started a small fire under the fume hood and as their teacher put it out, Abby put a calming hand on his shoulder, which was literally the only thing that felt remotely okay in that moment.

In February, he was bent over his lab station and could feel her eyes on him. He looked up; she was smiling enigmatically.

“I like you,” she said simply.

Chris blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth to say something – what, he had no idea – but she spoke again.

“We should date.”

Chris cocked his head, like he didn’t understand the words, but then said, “Okay.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t have even the vaguest idea what he was doing.

The extent of his interest in girls while Grandpa was alive had been a silly crush on Kate Arthur when he was twelve, and so he had never asked – and Grandpa had never offered – education in How To Date 101. It was so low on Chris’ priority list as to be completely off the radar screen, and Grandpa, understandably, assumed they’d have plenty of time to go over that later.

And no, Chris was absolutely _not_ talking to Dad about this. 

The fortunate thing about going out with Abby, Chris observed, was that she _did_ know what she was doing, and by extension what Chris _should_ be doing. She was a year and a half older than Chris, with considerable experience in actual, real-life, two-person relationships, and she was very, very assertive. Chris was intimidated as all hell by her, but he rolled with her example.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” Abby told him, holding his hand. “I love dating shy boys. They’re always fun.”

Chris flushed but smiled, glad he could make her happy.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris and Abby were _supposed_ to be studying for finals that Friday evening.

They were _actually_ making out on her bed.

This was, Chris had come to learn, most of what having a girlfriend at fifteen actually entailed: not going to dinner or to the movies like adults did, but studying together, holding hands in the halls, getting the occasional meal after school, and doing a lot of making out. Chris did not mind this, first of all because he was becoming quite fond of kissing, but also because it didn’t make him feel like an awkward wreck. If all he was responsible for was Abby’s lips and not maintaining suavity or a conversation, well, that was something he knew how to do.

A corner of a hardcover textbook was digging into Chris’ back annoyingly, but he didn’t really care, not when Abby was smelling really good and taking off her top and squeezing his biceps like that.

Chris parted from her to get a couple lungsful of air, and when he did, Abby bit her lip and looked up at him coyly.

“You wanna?”

Chris blinked, staring at Abby’s pouty lips. “Wanna what?”

Abby rolled her eyes, reaching down and slipping a hand beneath her boxspring and mattress. “You’re such a virgin.” She pressed the little foil-wrapped square into Chris’ hand and started shimmying out of her pants.

Chris sat up and stared at the condom. His mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

_Shit shit shit. Really? Okay. Wow. I can…okay, yes. Plenty of people have figured out how to use one of these things before. It’s fine. It’s all good. Just focus._

He opened the condom, unrolled it all the way, then cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Um,” he said, a little bit panicked.

Abby was kissing the back of his neck; he could feel her breasts pressed up against him. “Hurry _up,_ Chris, I don’t want my brother to catch us.”

_Gross. Okay. Now, how do I…? Okay, yeah. Shit. No. OUCH. No, that doesn’t work. Maybe if I…goddammit, FOCUS._

Chris’ heart was hammering and his hands were shaking and he found himself dearly wishing that Grandpa had covered this skill before he died – unpleasant though that might have been – because no matter how he tried, he simply could not figure out how to put… _himself_ …in _there._

In his minor panic, things started to…well, wilt. As things will.

And then came…the raucous _peal of laughter._

“What are you _doing?”_ Abby cackled from behind him, finally looking around and watching the proceedings with great interest before she fell back onto her bed, holding her stomach as she laughed. “Oh my god, it’s just a _condom!_ What are you, _eight?_ I knew you were a virgin, but _god!”_ She looked up at him and snorted ungracefully. “I thought you were supposed to be smart!”

Chris felt like his face might actually scorch off with humiliation. Quietly, he gathered his clothes – he managed to put his jeans back on, but just carried his shirt – and made his way for Abby’s bedroom door. She was laughing so hard that she didn’t even notice him leaving until he was already walking out.

“Oh come _on,_ Chris, lighten up,” Abby called after him, still giggling a little.

Chris didn’t look back at her. He just walked, as quickly as possible, out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out of her house, putting on his shirt en route.

And that was the end of Chris and Abby.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Please. Please. Please. Please. Please? _Pleeeeease,_ Chris?”

David Castro looked about a heartbeat away from actually getting down on his knees and begging, right here in front of the lockers. Which, while it would’ve been entertaining, would’ve drawn a lot of unwanted attention. Chris just shot him a very wary look.

David was probably Chris’ best friend, even though they really weren’t _that_ close. Chris was easygoing, likable, and smart; he had many acquaintances. Friends, though? Close, tell-your-troubles-to friends? Chris struggled to think of even one. David, however, came closest.

David had a crush on Marie. Marie wanted them to double date. Marie had a friend named Erin. And now David was trying to rope Chris into this charade.

“Tell me again why you even need to double?” Chris asked, shoving his books in his locker.

“Because Marie wants to,” David answered, a hint of _duh_ on his tongue. “She thinks it’ll be fun.”

“Famous last words,” Chris muttered under his breath.

“Come again?”

“Nothing, nothing. Okay, so why me?”

David gave him a slightly pitying look that turned Chris’ stomach. “Because you’re my only single friend, man.”

Chris huffed, slamming his locker shut. “Thanks, David; that’s great to hear. Really makes me want to help you.”

“Chris, please,” David continued to beg. “Just an evening out of your life, okay? We go to the diner, we get food, we come home.” David smiled dopily. “Or…well, maybe you and Erin go home; Marie and I, we might – ”

_“More than I need to know!”_ Chris shouted, forestalling David with a hand up. He heaved an enormous sigh. “All right. Fine. You owe me.”

“With interest,” David said quickly. “Thank you thank you thank you.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I am so naïve,_ Chris thought morosely. He should’ve known, foreseen somehow, that going on a double date with David and Marie would largely involve the two of them making gaga eyes at one another over their fries and not a lot of actual conversation. It was uniquely uncomfortable, not to mention kind of gross, being a witness to… _that._

The only good thing was that Erin, the friend Marie had brought along, seemed as disinterested by the proceedings as Chris did.

“How do you and Marie know each other?” Chris asked dumbly.

“She’s my cousin,” Erin answered. “Our dads are brothers. You and…uh, David, was it?”

“Calculus class,” Chris answered.

Erin flicked her eyes between Marie and David for a moment, then looked back to Chris. “Do you think they know we’re still here?”

Chris looked to David. “I’m not convinced they’re still technically alive. His eyes are pretty glazed.”

“Do they put drugs in the burgers here?”

“Well, I’ve always thought Ken behind the counter looked a little too flush to just be a waiter at a diner in Mojave.”

Erin snorted, then started assisting Chris with constructing a small armada of paper starships out of Sweet ‘n’ Low packets.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

David and Marie lasted about a week.

Chris and Erin, on the other hand, started hanging out a _lot_ more. Chris really, really liked her, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. They had a lot of similar interests, and complemented one another beautifully. Erin was smart in the same ways that Chris felt stupid, like social engagements. She had a lot more confidence than Chris did and was totally willing to let him be her follower at parties. She also introduced him to horses; her family had a ranch not far from the Pike home, and her grandmother’s elderly horse, a stubborn old cuss named Tango, seemed to take to Chris immediately. Erin was a geology nut, so she loved to talk about the formation of planets and moons and their galactic relationships to one another. Chris snuck her into the spaceport’s observatory one night and they looked at stars until the sun started to rise. Chris, who before that night had no concept of _romance,_ finally began to get it.

At midnight on New Year’s Eve, Chris kissed her.

She blinked up at him. “Oh,” she said softly, then smiled.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It should have been easy as pie, being Erin’s boyfriend after spending several months being such good friends with her, but it was…unexpectedly challenging. They both tried, though; going on actual dates, eating lunch together, holding hands in the hall…typical behavior for teenage lovebirds. But something just didn’t seem right. It was as though Chris and Erin as friends were puzzle pieces that clicked beautifully, but putting them in a romantic relationship was like flipping one of the pieces in the wrong direction. They felt misaligned, and Erin looked uncomfortable continuing to try.

They were sitting back on the floor of the observatory, Chris’ arm around Erin, when he said it.

“You think this is weird too, don’t you?”

Erin nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Chris sighed sadly. “Why is it weird? We’re good together as friends, right?”

“We’re _great_ together as friends.”

“So why doesn’t it work like this?”

Erin winced, then sat up, swiveling around and facing Chris. She had a funny look on her face.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Erin said uncomfortably, “and I think I know why.”

Chris was immediately on guard. “Is it me?”

“No!” Erin corrected immediately. “No, no, it’s not you, Chris. It’s me.”

Chris leaned his head back and groaned. “Even _I_ know that when someone says ‘it’s me, not you,’ it’s you.”

“Just listen.” She licked her lips. “I, ah…I’ve kind of thought this for a few years, but I feel more certain now…I’m pretty sure I like girls.”

Chris blinked. “So…what, you’re bi?”

Erin’s expression told him otherwise. Chris raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not just bi?”

Erin shook her head.

Chris looked at her, then at a random point over her shoulder. “Huh,” he said neutrally. “Well. Um. That makes sense, then.”

“I’m sorry, Chris,” Erin said plaintively.

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Chris rushed to say. “I mean, it’s not like…it’s not like it’s your _fault,_ or anything.” He laughed a little bit. “It does certainly explain why you and I are so mismatched.”

Erin smiled, huffed out a little laugh, then looked down, squeezing her eyes. Her breathing looked labored.

Chris looked at her softly. “Erin, look at me.” She did; her eyes were wide and kind of watery. “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

She nodded, looking deflated, like a massive dam of tension inside her had just burst.

Chris pushed himself up and tugged her in to his chest, hugging her close. “Big step,” he whispered. “Thank you for telling me.”

They were quiet for a while. Then, Erin spoke. “Can we still be friends?”

Chris smiled. “Can I still ride Tango?”

She laughed. “God knows nobody else will.”

Chris kissed her forehead. “Yeah, we can still be friends.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was only out of deep, deep affection for Erin that Chris found himself at her birthday party. She had given him an out – “If you really can’t hack it, you can stay home that day and then we can go get burgers the next night, it’s really okay” – but Chris sighed the same long-suffering sigh he’d been using since birth and decided he really couldn’t miss his best friend’s birthday party without being a complete tool.

Erin was deep in conversation with some fellow geology nerds that Chris didn’t know, so he flopped down onto her couch and tried to look nonchalantly cool while _actual_ cool people milled around him. It was actually kind of nice – he liked being an observer – but it was also painfully awkward.

“I don’t even know why I came to this party,” a girl said as she sat down on the other end of the couch.

“Erin’s birthday,” Chris filled in without looking up.

“I hate parties,” she mumbled.

Chris looked up. “You do?” he asked with a little hint of delight. “Me too!”

“Right?” the girl said, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I get so claustrophobic and I never know what to say and – ”

“Forced merriment,” Chris supplied.

“Yes!” she said, pointing. “Yes. That’s it. _Forced merriment._ God, that’s good. I need to write that one down.” She looked at Chris, squinting. “Aren’t you in my English class?”

Chris cocked his head. She looked vaguely familiar. “Maybe.”

“I’m Elizabeth,” she said.

“Chris,” he replied. 

“Chris,” she said, as if turning the word over in her mouth. “Wanna go get a drink and talk about other things we hate?”

“Always,” Chris answered enthusiastically.

An hour later, they were feeling one another up on the sofa in Erin’s basement. Chris looked up and saw Erin watching them with a disgusted look of mild interest, as if she was watching a nature documentary.

“I say this with all the love in the world, Christopher, but thank you for never getting that far with me,” she intoned as she passed by the sofa.

So Chris Pike and Elizabeth Sadler were dating, which was nice, but of little general interest, because Chris Pike and Elizabeth Sadler were smart and nice people who lived largely on the outside of the high school centers of population. No one disliked them, but they also didn’t _quite_ belong in any of the well-organized social groups, which made them just kind of… _there,_ in the general sense of human relationships. But neither of them minded that; they liked each other just fine, and the fact that Erin was Chris’ best friend and also reasonably close to Elizabeth bound them together with just enough social cohesion to move through Mojave High School a relatively happy, undisturbed couple.

They went on actual, proper dates, the way actual, proper grownups would do, because “we’re seventeen and we should know how to do this by now,” or so Elizabeth said. It was certainly nothing fancy; a movie here, a dinner date there (at the diner – everything happened at the diner), one night going to some truly dreadful community theater. Chris loved spending time with someone as witty and sharp as Elizabeth, and he couldn’t deny the significant fringe benefit of getting out of the house, where he, Dad, and Grandma seemed to pass one another like ships in the night, everyone fending for themselves.

Because he’d had a couple years to educate himself on condom use, he was confident enough to lose his virginity to her on Valentine’s Day. On February 15, Erin was waiting for him at his locker. He must’ve had a dopey look on his face, because she squinted at him, as if scrutinizing his appearance, then leaned in and gave him a long, exaggerated sniff, before backing off. She looked mildly nauseated.

“You had sex.”

Chris just grinned back at her stupidly.

Erin winced. “I say this with all the love in the world, Christopher, but thank you for never getting that far with me.”

“You’ve used that line with me already, you know.”

“Underline it.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What do you want to do with your life?”

Elizabeth asked him the question as they lay together in his bed, his dad off working at the spaceport and Grandma at her book club.

Chris shrugged. “I dunno,” he said truthfully. “I used to think about joining Starfleet.”

“You’d go _off planet?”_ Elizabeth said incredulously.

Something like a thrill went through Chris at the suggestion. “Yeah, maybe.”

“But…wouldn’t you miss your kids?” Elizabeth asked slowly.

Chris actually laughed. “Kids?”

“I mean, if you’re out _there,”_ she gestured vaguely upward, “then you’d miss out on their lives down here. How could you stand that?”

Chris frowned bemusedly. “Okay, awkward question, but you _do_ know that I don’t actually _have_ kids, right?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I _know_ that, it’s just…look, mature people have to consider the next generation when they plan their future. It’s not _all_ about you, you know.”

This conversation had taken a turn for the very, very weird. “I, um…I don’t particularly want to _have_ kids,” Chris said slowly.

Elizabeth blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “Huh?”

“I just…I don’t think I have the right temperament to be a parent.” Something _horrifying_ suddenly occurred to Chris. “Um. Elizabeth. You’re not…”

“What? Oh, no!” She laughed. “No, no, I’m not pregnant, god.”

Chris came down from the adrenaline rush so fast that he got dizzy.

“I just…I can’t imagine not wanting children. I’ve always wanted children.”

Chris actually shuddered, which, it occurred to him, was an odd thing to do. While he’d always been kind of peripherally aware that fatherhood wasn’t on his lifetime agenda, it was a different experience to know that and be lying in a bed naked with your girlfriend while she talked about how much she wanted kids. He hadn’t realized his aversion was quite that strong until that moment.

Elizabeth’s expression got suddenly serious. “This is really a big thing for you, isn’t it?”

Chris nodded. “I kind of wrecked my parents’ lives,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t want a kid to grow up knowing that like I did.”

“Wrecked their lives,” Elizabeth echoed sadly. There was a pause, and then she sat up, facing Chris, and smiling regretfully at him. “Chris,” she said softly, “I know we’re only seventeen, but I had hoped that maybe we’d be able to go at this long term.”

Chris stayed silent. He knew a break-up speech when he heard one.

“But having children…that’s an absolute with me,” she said. “And if that’s not something that you want…maybe it’s better to call it off now, before we get too much deeper into one another’s lives.”

Chris sighed. He wasn’t exactly distraught over the idea of breaking up – it had only been a few months; hardly enough time to be wailing and rending one’s garments – but still, he was disappointed. He so, so liked Elizabeth. But the pragmatist in him admitted that she had a valid point. After all, the entire point of dating was to test out for longer relationships; if they knew a flaw this massive so early, they should probably be grateful it didn’t progress any further. Like it had for Chris’ parents.

“I’ll miss you,” he said softly.

Elizabeth smiled. “I’ll miss you too.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Dad came home after midnight, Chris was in the kitchen, washing out what had been a bowl of cereal for dinner.

“Hey,” Chris greeted lowly.

Dad looked up at him, his facial expression not changing much. “Hey,” he said. “How’re you?”

“Not great,” Chris admitted. “My girlfriend just dumped me.”

Dad frowned. “You have a girlfriend?”

Chris let a long breath go and closed his eyes. “Not anymore, Dad,” he said shortly. “Good night.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris’ guidance counselor asked to see him a week before his junior year ended.

This was unusual. Guidance counselors at his school didn’t typically request an audience with their students unless there was an academic issue that needed resolution or the student was having what they tacitly called _a personal problem._ Chris was on top of his grades, and other than his unusual home life – which had honestly never been “usual” by any definition – and his breakup with Elizabeth – about which he didn’t feel _great,_ but which he was hardly going to pieces about – he had no “personal problems” of which to speak.

So Chris had no idea what this was about. But it was getting him out of watching his classmates’ economics presentations, so really, who cared?

“Christopher?” Chris looked up; his guidance counselor – who, to his recollection, he’d only met once before – was calling him. “We’re ready for you. Come on back.”

Chris shouldered his bag and followed her down the hall to her office, surprised that they were joined by a third person, a tall man with slightly thinning red hair in a Starfleet uniform.

“Mr. Pike, I presume?” he said in a mildly booming baritone.

Chris blinked. “Uh. Yes?” He swallowed. “Sir?” he added belatedly.

The officer gave Chris a handshake so firm Chris almost had to shake the feeling back into his hand afterward. “Commander Alexander Marcus. Nice to meet you.”

Chris nodded. “You as well, sir.” He turned back to Ms. Zapata curiously. “Is there a reason you wanted to see – ”

“Actually, son, _I’m_ the one who asked to see you,” Commander Marcus said, bringing up a file on a PADD. “Just out of curiosity, what are your plans for after high school?”

Chris shrugged. “I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

“A long record of academic excellence,” Marcus read off his PADD. “Particularly high scores in physics, geometry, and the social sciences. Unimpeachable performance under stress. Works equally well collaboratively or independently. Excellent physical health and fitness.” He looked up from what Chris realized was his academic file. “Hell of a record to leave up to just a shrug.”

There was a beat of silence. “I don’t graduate for another year. I’ve got time to decide.”

“You’ve got more than enough credits to graduate _this_ year, if you wanted to,” Ms. Zapata interjected.

“…Do I want to?” Chris asked, only slightly rhetorically.

Marcus set the PADD down on the desk and smiled benevolently at Chris. “You ever considered enlisting?”

Chris narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly. He had, of course, ever since the first time Grandpa took him onto the roof; but after Grandpa died, everything kind of got put on hold, including whatever dreams Chris had previously dreamt. “I have a feeling I’m about to.”

“With your aptitude,” Marcus said, nodding to the PADD, “you’d make a hell of an officer. Have you ever known anyone in Starfleet?”

Chris nodded, ignoring the pang. “My grandfather, before I was born. He was an engineer. My dad isn’t ‘Fleet, but he’s done some contract work for them. For you, I mean.”

“Son, signing up for Starfleet means giving yourself a chance to change the galaxy,” Marcus continued. “Not just the planet, not just the Federation, but the whole _galaxy._ You get to see things nobody’s ever seen, set foot places nobody’s ever walked. We turn what’s strange into what’s familiar. We observe, we demystify, we assist, and we keep the peace. There is nothing more satisfying than extending a hand to those who need our help, except perhaps defending ourselves and our values.”

Chris nodded, but tuned out the rest of the recruitment speech. Instead, he was thinking about Grandpa, on the roof all those years before, pointing out constellations and planets and talking about sailing the stars with such wistfulness in his eyes. Thinking about those beautiful, glittering stars, cold, distant, and dynamic, and at the same time warm, reliable, and constant.

Trying to think of what the hell he actually had tying him to Mojave anymore, and failing.

Thinking about Grandpa looking fondly at Chris and saying _You wanna go up there someday?_

“What do you think?” Marcus was asking. Chris steeled himself, feeling the ghost of Vince Pike somewhere over his shoulder, close enough to touch, whispering _just do it, Chris._

“Where do I sign?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks passed, and Chris didn’t breathe a word.

He, Dad, and Grandma continued to coexist in the house. Chris continued to attend classes. He quietly filed the paperwork to graduate this term, though he decided not to walk at the commencement ceremony. He quietly bought a shuttle ticket from Mojave to San Francisco.

He told Erin, who promised not to say anything to anyone, then hugged him and told him that _if you get yourself killed out there I’ll resurrect you and then kill you again myself, dummy._

Because he was under eighteen, he had to have parental consent to join up. In lieu of the actual parental consent – which, he admitted in retrospect, probably would have been granted, but he wanted to avoid that complication – Chris snuck down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and nicked his dad’s ID from his wallet, scanning his signature onto the Academy application. A keen eye might’ve been able to spot the forgery, but it was a serviceable enough job.

The night before he left, Erin took him to get burgers at the diner. They sat next to each other in the same booth. She stole most of his fries and rested her head on his shoulder. They were mostly silent.

When he got home, he brushed his teeth and went straight to bed.

Then he waited, listening to the sounds of the house around him.

Grandma, he knew, was already asleep; the woman had probably never been out a minute past ten in her entire life; but he could still hear a holovid droning on a low volume in the direction of Dad’s room. He was off tonight; he always stayed up past midnight those nights, though rarely by much. When the holovid was finally silenced, and Chris could hear the creak of the bedsprings that sounded like someone rolling over in bed, he felt confident that he was in the clear.

He looked at the clock. _Nineteen after one._ The first shuttle into San Francisco didn’t leave until five, so he had some time.

He waited half an hour, just to be sure.

A sound tactical maneuver. _They’ll appreciate it at the Academy._

He moved quickly, but quietly, tugging an empty duffel out from under his bed and aimlessly shoving a few socks, boxers, t-shirts, and jeans into it. He grabbed the stack of PADDs from next to his bed and stuffed them into it, tiptoed to the bathroom and took his toothbrush and his travel shaving kit, and made sure his communicator was charged and his ID and credits were in his wallet. He donned Grandpa’s leather jacket, patting the _Pike_ over his heart just as he always did. Finally, he eased the collapsible telescope that Grandpa had given him for his ninth birthday down from its stand by the window, collapsed it, and tucked it gingerly into the cradle formed by two of his t-shirts. Zipping up the duffel, Chris tried not to reflect on the fact that it was kind of sad, his entire life being able to fit in this bag with room to spare.

He tiptoed out of his room, closing the door quietly behind him, and walked with gentle feet down the attic steps, past first his grandmother’s room, then his dad’s. He’d had no intention of saying goodbye this whole time – after all, he’d snuck out plenty of times before, and he’d never thought twice about it – but now…something about just up and sneaking off in the middle of the night _and then not coming back_ didn’t sit well with him.

_Is this what maturity feels like?_ he wondered sardonically. _Elizabeth would be impressed._

Rolling his eyes at his own sentimentality, he found the paper and pen Grandma insisted stay in the kitchen at all times, the one she used for grocery lists, and scribbled out a note.

_I’ll comm you when I get to San Francisco. – CVP_

Chris set it on the kitchen table, where he knew they’d find it, and strode out the front door with a slightly lighter conscience. The door clicked closed behind him, and he inhaled deeply, expecting to feel the warm desert air filling his lungs, and instead breathing in… _cigarette smoke?_

He turned around. Dad was leaning on the rail of the porch, watching him with an almost bemused look on his face.

_Shit._

They stared at one another for a long, long moment. Then Chris cleared his throat. “That shit’ll kill you, you know.”

The faint smile didn’t even leave Dad’s lips as he shrugged. “We’ve all gotta go somehow.”

Chris sighed slightly, adjusting the strap of his duffel on his shoulder. “I’m going out,” he said, before self-consciously kicking himself. _No shit you’re going out, Pike._ “I’ll comm you,” he added. Dad just nodded, taking a drag and watching as Chris strode off the porch and down the driveway.

“Son,” Dad called. Chris turned. It was so dark outside that he could barely make his father’s form out but for the light from his cigarette, and he was struck by the visceral feeling that _I’m probably never going to see him again._

Chris was, apparently, not alone in this assumption.

“Have a good life,” Dad said.

Chris nodded back, then turned and continued walking away, heading for the shuttleport. He didn’t know what, exactly, he was feeling. He was numb, for sure, but there was some kind of sensation under that, something he recognized like one might a dear friend one hadn’t seen in far too many years.

He looked up at the stars, and he recognized the feeling.

_Freedom._


	5. Chapter 5

Chris started his second term at the Academy the day after his eighteenth birthday, and his first class that Monday morning was entitled “Elementary Survival Strategies.” Which to Chris sounded…vague. He knew what they were getting at, but really, weren’t elementary survival strategies things like…breathing? Eating? Not walking into a hail of phaser fire?

(Yes, he _was_ perfectly aware that he was a first-class smartass.)

The professor for the class was a tall, intimidating woman with her hair in a ponytail and a voice that was clearly given to her for the explicit purpose of scaring the hell out of Starfleet cadets.

“Welcome to Elementary Survival Strategies. I’m Commander Mehl, and I’ll be your instructor this term. In this introductory course, we will be focusing on the theoretical bases of survival strategies; in the intermediate and advanced courses, you will do field work in which you will be asked to apply them in a practical setting. This is the first of a required course series at the Academy. I will repeat that in simpler terms: You will pass this course, or you will not graduate. Command, ops, science, medical – everyone gets this training, and everyone passes it in order to be a member of Starfleet. No exceptions. Are there any questions about that?”

Commander Mehl was greeted by silence.

“Very well, boys and girls; if you would – ”

A voice popped up from right behind Chris’ right shoulder. “Commander, your language is both condescending and exclusionary of many human and nonhuman gender identities.”

Chris felt his eyes grow wide and heard the creak of several bodies swiveling in their chairs to look at the speaker. Chris turned as well, his eyes falling on a male cadet, probably a few years older than Chris, with a round face and thick, light brown hair parted on the side. He had a smile on his face that was oddly serene, given the circumstances.

Commander Mehl raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“It would be more appropriate to refer to us collectively as ‘cadets,’ given that you do not know the specific gender identities of every cadet in this room,” the cadet continued, his smile not wavering. “Many Federation member species have more than two genders, or two genders that do not correspond to the human _male_ and _female,_ or no gender at all, not to mention the many humans whose gender does not fit into the mythical human norm of the gender binary. Further, to refer to us with a diminutive like _boys and girls_ minimizes the high accomplishments of everyone in this room, particularly for our human female cadets, who, as I’m sure you’re aware, have historically had to work considerably harder than their male colleagues to not simply be another ‘girl’ in a ‘boys’ club’ like Starfleet or any other military organization.”

Chris could feel his eyebrows migrating a little higher on his forehead. _The balls on this guy._

Mehl’s eyes bored holes into the cadet’s head. “And your name is?”

“Cadet Philip Boyce, Commander. Second year medical student. I will generally accept ‘he’ and ‘him’ pronouns.”

Chris pursed his lips hard to keep from laughing, because _nothing_ was rattling this guy, and it was _kind of amazing._

Commander Mehl turned to her TA. “Cadet Paris, please make a note to remind me to enter a demerit in Cadet Boyce’s file at the conclusion of class, for interrupting a superior officer and for general _cheek.”_

Boyce’s serene expression didn’t change. After Mehl’s back was turned, he looked straight at Chris. Chris nodded to him approvingly. Boyce shot him a coy wink.

Apparently, Chris was not the only first-class smartass in the room. He found the thought oddly comforting.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris hated Thursdays, because on Thursdays he had a really late class way up on the ass-end of campus near the medical center – History of Humanitarian Aid in a Trans-Galactic Context, which was actually really interesting, but _god,_ he was exhausted by the time he was traipsing home at 2200 hours. And, to make matters _much_ worse, he had to walk down what the cadets informally called Booze Row, a section of street just outside the Academy grounds lined with outdoor restaurants turned bars, which during the day was probably a nice spot but after hours basically just devolved into people getting shitfaced in public.

On this particular Thursday, something made Chris’ ears perk up as he walked along Booze Row, and not in a good way.

“Kyle, I really just want to go home.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re making this into a _way_ bigger deal than it needs to be…you like me, right?”

“Yeah, I do, but – ”

“But what? I’ll get you another drink if you want before we go…something to help you relax.”

“I’ve…I’ve got an early morning…”

“Oh c’mon, baby. You know you want this like I do.”

“Kyle, no. _No._ Please just take me home.”

A dangerous pause. “Now, now, baby. That’s no way to treat the man who bought you a drink.”

“Stop it.”

“Just c’mon – ”

_“No!”_

_“Hey!”_ Chris barked. Then he preened a little on the inside. _That sounded very…commanding._

Kyle – obviously an upperclassman, who Chris thought looked like kind of a dick, even without the conversation he’d just overheard – gave Chris a dirty look. “What do you want, plebe?”

“There a problem here?” Chris said, in what he hoped was an adequately dangerous tone.

Kyle scoffed. “Who are you, her baby brother?”

Chris smirked dangerously. “No,” he said, inching closer and darkening his voice, “But I could hear her tell you _no_ from ten feet away even when you apparently couldn’t from right next to her.”

Kyle’s eyes darkened. He put his hands on his hips; he was about as tall as Chris, but outweighed him handily. Chris swallowed and made furtive eye contact with the girl whose “no” Kyle had played deaf to; he flicked his eyes to the door of the restaurant, and she scooted away without a word. Kyle didn’t even notice.

“When will you little command dweebs learn that you need to stay in your own fucking lane?” Kyle intoned, giving Chris a hard shove back.

Chris stumbled but stayed upright. The patrons around them went silent. He let out a waspish chuckle and tossed his PADDs on the ground, perfectly aware that they had an audience now. “And when will men like _you – ”_ Chris shoved him right back, “ – learn that women don’t owe you _shit?”_

Kyle snarled. “You little – ”

Chris didn’t see the punch coming, and for a few seconds didn’t realize that it had actually happened. Then he felt wet warmth on his upper lip, and… _ah, shit._

Kyle cocked his fist back to land another punch, but Chris thought fast and kneed him in the groin, knocking the breath out of him for a moment so Chris could compose himself. Kyle was looking at Chris with a kind of drunk blind rage that would’ve been frightening, had Chris not witnessed Kyle prove exactly what kind of man he was (and wasn’t) to his date. Kyle made to hit Chris again, but was stopped by someone tapping on his shoulder.

“Excuse me?” a cordial voice said from behind Kyle. He turned; there, to Chris’ befuddlement, was Philip Boyce, looking just as serene as he had the other day when he called Commander Mehl on her choice of words.

Then Chris watched with something approaching awe as the calm, gentle-looking cadet punched Kyle out _cold._

Boyce winced, shook out his hand, and looked up at Chris, raising his eyebrows slightly, as if to say, _well, that’s done._ At the same moment, they seemed to remember their audience, so they made their way with some haste out of the bar area and down the sidewalk, Boyce tripping over and then picking up Chris’ wayward PADDs on his way.

“You’re in plebe dorms, I assume?” Boyce asked genially. Chris nodded. “My room’s closer,” he continued. “C’mon. I can get you patched up.”

Boyce brought Chris back to his apartment – tiny, but a single, _god, the ‘Fleet treats their med students well_ – and started running a regen over Chris’ smarting nose.

“Ooh, _three_ fractures. The asshat did a great job on you.”

“Fucking fabulous,” Chris muttered, letting his gaze flit around the apartment as Boyce worked. Unlike Chris’ rather spartan dorm, Boyce’s looked comfortable, like somebody actually lived there –a bowl of fruit on the table, a blanket tossed over the back of the sofa with a pattern that might’ve been Native American, two bookshelves overflowing with books, an actual old-fashioned black and white photograph of three women up on the wall next to Chris. The notable absence of a roommate was also a nice touch, which Chris didn’t _just_ think because his own roommate, Paul, was a first-class asshole. It looked…like a home. And not like the stiff, not-on-the-furniture, use-a-coaster-Christopher home he’d grown up in. Like a _real_ home. It made him feel warm inside.

Three tones rang outside. Chris’ eyes flew to his chronometer. “Oh, _hell,_ it’s curfew.”

Boyce didn’t take his eyes off his handiwork on Chris’ nose. “So crash here.”

Chris looked at him. “Really?”

Boyce shrugged. “I’ve got a couch. No big deal.”

Chris smiled as much as his slowly healing nose would allow. “Thanks, Boyce.”

He grinned back. “Call me Phil, kid.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Academy laundry was, as laundromats go, clean, well-lit, and decent smelling. As a nice little bonus, it was also sparsely populated on Monday nights, when Chris headed down with his clothes in a bag on his back and a PADD with homework for Introductory Warp Theory on it.

He was in the zone, knee-deep in calculations backed by the white noise of the sterilizer’s drone, when a female voice at the far end of the aisle let out a low _“shit!”_

Chris looked up; a cadet with long, dark curls was frantically patting her person, obviously looking for more credit chips, all while the washer in front of her let out a steady series of annoying blinks for her to insert her credits already. She looked to be on the verge of admitting defeat and pulling her clothes out of the washer when Chris found himself approaching her with an outstretched hand.

“Here,” he said with a friendly smile. “Let me help.”

She looked up at him, and… _uh oh._

She was _pretty._

And maybe a little shy, too, because she was blushing _really_ hard.

“Um,” she finally managed, “thank you.” She took the credit chips from Chris’ hand and slipped them into her machine, which started up.

She licked her lips and smiled at him, and _ohhhh that’s it I’m so gone._

God help him, Flirty Chris could not be contained. He smiled, leaned casually against a washer, and put on his grumbliest, sexiest voice. “I’m Chris.”

Her cheeks pinked a little again. He was _such_ a sucker for rosy cheeks. “I know,” she said.

He frowned slightly. He hadn’t expected it.

“We, um, have Intro to Diplomatic Debate together,” she clarified. “Samantha D’Alessandro.”

Chris couldn’t place her from Intro to Diplomatic Debate, which made him feel like a gigantic tool. “Samantha D’Alessandro,” he said seamlessly. “I’m gonna take a wild guess that you’re of Italian descent, hmm?”

Samantha held up a jet black ringlet. “What gave it away?” Chris grinned. “What are you?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m Andorian,” Chris deadpanned.

Samantha burst out laughing. She had a _great_ laugh. Somewhere behind her, Chris’ laundry finished, the sterilizer cycle beeping.

“Well,” he said, nodding behind her, “that’s me.”

Samantha tapped her machine with one finger. “Thanks for the chips,” she said with a smile.

Chris did not, strictly speaking, know what he was doing. But he did it anyway.

“Listen,” he rumbled, “if I’m being too forward, just say so, but…I’d kind of like to see you again. Y’know, not just in Intro to Diplomatic Debate.”

There went that blush again, doing funny things to Chris’ insides. Samantha smiled. “Yes please.”

Chris grinned. “Monday night in the Academy laundry is kind of a shitty date night, though. How’s your Saturday?”

Samantha took what looked like a deep breath. “For going on a date with Chris Pike? Permanently free.” When Chris cocked his head curiously, she shot him a coy glance. “I may have had a crush on you for a couple of months.”

Chris’ heart stuttered a little with glee, and now he _really_ felt like a tool for not remembering her from their class together. “Well, I can pretty well assure you _that’s_ not warranted,” he said dryly, “but I’ll buy you dinner for it all the same.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christopher Pike was a man in love.

Philip Boyce was – apparently – a man wary.

Chris and Sam’s first date had gone well enough to lead to a second, which had gone well enough to lead to drinks, which had gone well enough to lead to bed, which meant that Chris had a truly _disgusting_ look of sappy delight on his face for an entire morning and didn’t even _care_ how sickening it was.

Phil had met Sam, and he was perfectly warm and friendly to her in person. In private, though, Chris thought he seemed just a little… _off,_ regarding her. Then again, Phil was Chris’ best friend; maybe he was just being protective.

Sam, to Chris’ infinite delight, hit every single item on his checklist, in spades. She was brilliant, sweet, and gorgeous, but best of all, she was _so_ dedicated to her chosen field. While he was in command, she was in sciences – which was a mild bummer, since it meant they wouldn’t have as many classes together as they’d otherwise like – but this bummer was mitigated by the fact that Sam was unbelievably passionate about astrophysics. She was determined, always pushing herself to do better than her classmates, wanting to be right at the top, because she loved what she did so much and wanted to prove it to the world. Chris loved watching her eyes dance as she talked about gas giants and binary stars and magnetospheres.

(Passionate people were one of his _things.)_

As for Sam? She treated Chris like he hung the moon. It was nice, Chris thought, being thought of as _much_ cooler than he actually was, in virtually _every_ way, from intelligence to looks to actual popularity. Of course, there was something nagging at the base of his skull that kept chanting _house of cards, house of cards_ in a low voice; and, yes, once in a very great while, he’d allow the thought that maybe this relationship was just too perfect to rise to the surface. Then he’d suffocate it with Sam’s smell on his pillow.

He was a man in love. It made Phil’s weirdness about Sam that much harder to stand.

One evening, while Chris was at Phil’s borrowing a tie and getting ready to take Sam out, he finally got full and confronted Phil about it. “Do you not like Sam?” he blurted, shirt half open, Phil’s tie haphazardly strung around his neck.

Phil looked up at him from his terminal, almost distracted. “I like Sam just fine,” Phil said, overly calm.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Chris shot back, sitting to tie his shoe.

Phil sighed, setting his PADD down and wincing a little. “Chris, I’m not bullshitting you. I think Sam’s a good person.”

“But?”

Phil paused, looking at Chris warily. _“But,”_ he continued slowly, “you’ve gotten awfully close to her awfully fast, and…I don’t know. I don’t know how well you mesh with her. There’s something about her I don’t trust.” Chris opened his mouth to protest, but Phil held up his hands. “Don’t come for me; I can’t rationalize it for you, and I’m not going to make it into a _thing._ Really, I’m not; I’m happy for you and Sam, as long as _you’re_ happy. This might just be me being overprotective or something.”

Chris winced. “I love Sam,” he said simply.

Phil nodded stiffly. “I know you do.”

“I’m sorry you don’t trust her,” Chris said quietly, “but I do.”

“I know,” Phil said. “And I respect that.”

Chris finished tying his shoes. “I’m late,” he said quietly, leaving Phil’s room with something hot and slimy squirming in his gut.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In retrospect, Chris should’ve known this was a very bad idea. But, well…men in love do stupid things sometimes.

He woke up on a Sunday morning with Sam curled up next to him, her breaths fluttering one of her dark ringlets as she slept, and he thought, _breakfast in bed._ Never mind that Chris had never actually attempted to cook…well, anything, before. It couldn’t be that tough, right?

He tiptoed out of bed, trying very, very hard not to wake Paul, his utter dick of a roommate. He looked in the cupboard and… _yes, pancake mix!_ He turned a burner on and started melting some butter while he began mixing ingredients in a cereal bowl.

It was that sequence of events that proved a fatal flaw.

Chris was preoccupied with trying to get the lumps out of the batter without spilling it everywhere, when he smelled…something.

“Uh oh.”

He whirled around, and… _yep, that’s smoke…and that’s fire._

_“Shit!”_ he spat, tossing the batter down and flying for the fire extinguisher in the living room, tripping over one of Paul’s shoes, twisting his ankle and sprawling over the floor – which, of _course,_ woke Paul up.

“What are you doing, Pike, and what’s that ungodly – _what the fuck, is that fire?!”_

Chris managed to limp back to the kitchen and spray the fire for all it was worth, leaving a smoldering, foamy mess of what used to be romantic intentions. Chris panted hard, trying to get his breath back. Paul, it appeared, was having no such trouble.

“I am _so done_ with having to deal with a roommate!” he yelled. “It’s _always fucking something,_ you can’t obey _curfew,_ you can’t _cook,_ you can’t manage to keep your _girlfriend_ quiet – I’m _done!_ Get out! I’m _done_ with this!”

Twenty minutes, a hastily packed duffel bag, a kiss on the cheek, and an apology to his frantically-dressing girlfriend later, Chris found himself on Phil Boyce’s doorstep.

Phil, coming off a night shift, looked at Chris blearily.

“Hey. Could I crash here indefinitely?”

Phil blinked several times in rapid succession, raised his eyebrows, and stepped out of the way to let Chris into his apartment.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris got home from his late tactics class on Tuesday night – _home_ now being _Phil’s place,_ god help them both – all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed. He was hungry, but he doubted he’d have the energy to heat anything up, and a shower could wait until the morning. Phil would probably fuss at him, but priorities were priorities, and right now all he wanted was the sweet embrace of Phil’s couch. Sam had commed him to ask if he wanted to grab a late dinner, but he begged out.

Walking in to the apartment, though, Chris immediately heard voices – one Phil’s and one…that sounded oddly _tinny?_

Looking around, Chris spotted Phil at his desk, terminal open, smiling at the screen. _Oh, a comm, of course._ God, he must’ve been more tired than he thought. He sent up a sleepy wave, which Phil returned.

“We went to the MEP yesterday,” the feminine-sounding voice on the comm was saying. “You would have loved it, Phil. They’ve got an entire hall dedicated to…oh, what’s the name…that old Andorian artist you love so much who does the nudes, the one that always used the old Terran photographic techniques?”

“Who, ch’Tarna?”

“ch’Tarna, that’s it! ch’Tarna’s entire feminine body study project is on exhibition here. It’s stunning.”

Chris went into the kitchen and polished an apple on his shirt before taking a bite. It’d do for dinner. He looked back to Phil, who was grinning broadly, and wondered idly who he was talking to.

“I’m so glad you’re having such a good time, Mom. What are you bringing back for the grandkids?”

Phil’s mother said something else, but Chris stopped listening. Something icky and wholly unreasonable had started squirming in his stomach.

Chris had, for a long time, understood the reality of the situation with his own mother. Dad had rarely talked about her – even less so after his aborted marriage to Kerrie – but Grandpa had filled in a lot of the blanks about his mother’s illness. Chris had never felt specifically _bad_ about the situation. Honestly, he’d been so young when she went away that he didn’t feel like his memories of her were particularly concrete.

That didn’t mean he didn’t have a certain amount of… _conflict_ about her. Which manifested in weird ways, like getting envious of his best friend on a pleasant comm with his own mother.

Sighing, Chris pitched the apple core and went to the bathroom to get out of his reds. When he came back, Phil was off the call.

“Sorry about that,” he said unnecessarily. “My dad took my mom to Paris for their anniversary.”

Chris tried to smile. “Sounds nice.”

Phil snorted. “She’s never left Maine before now, and she’s so excited she’s trying to see the entire city in a week. I’ve never seen her have so much energy. Bet Dad’s struggling to keep up with her.”

Chris shook out his blanket. He tried to give a little laugh of acknowledgement, but it came out tight and strained. When he turned back around, Phil was looking at him curiously.

“Are you okay?”

Chris nodded abruptly. “Fine,” he mumbled. “Just tired. Long day.”

Phil blatantly didn’t believe him, but let it be. 

An hour later, when the lights were off, Chris, for all his exhaustion, couldn’t fall asleep. Phil was still up, with a PADD on low illumination in front of him, reading in the dark.

Without knowing exactly why he was talking, Chris blurted into the darkness, “Are you and your mom close?”

Phil jumped a mile and dropped his PADD. “Jesus _fuck,_ I thought you were asleep.”

“Sorry! Sorry, really sorry,” Chris babbled.

“No, it’s okay,” Phil said, audibly swallowing, “it’s fine. Sorry. Um. What was the question?”

Chris would’ve pulled a _nothing, never mind_ if he hadn’t just given Phil a heart attack asking the question in the first place. “Are you and your mom close?”

Phil paused, then shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. My whole family’s pretty close. I don’t get to comm them as much as I’d like, with classes and clinicals and everything, but we’re pretty tight-knit.” He paused significantly. “Why?”

Chris pinched part of his blanket between his fingers and rubbed it together. “Just curious, I guess.” He could feel Phil’s eyes looking in his direction, even in the very low light, and knew that Phil was perceptive enough to know there was more to the story than that.

Chris looked Phil’s way, thought _well, if I have to tell somebody,_ and made a decision.

“I haven’t seen my mom since I was five,” he blurted out, speaking quickly and all in one breath. “She has bipolar disorder with psychotic features, highly resistant to conventional treatments. She’s been in a residential hospital since I was little.”

Phil was silent for a moment before he spoke. “God, I’m sorry, Chris.” Chris let out a small sigh and nodded, even though he knew Phil couldn’t see him doing it.

He didn’t expect Phil’s next question.

“Do you miss her?”

Nobody, to Chris’ memory, had ever directly asked him that. Which seemed…odd, honestly. And it made Chris actually think about the question, which was not as simple as it appeared.

“I…don’t think so?” Chris said uncertainly. “I just…I don’t think I really knew her.” He paused, considering the situation. “I don’t know if _anybody_ really did. God, does that make me a horrible person?”

“No,” Phil answered immediately. “No, it doesn’t. It’s honest.” Chris heard Phil shift position in bed. “What about the rest of your family?”

Chris took a deep breath. “After she went inpatient, my dad and I moved in with my grandparents. Grandpa died when I was thirteen. Haven’t spoken to Dad or Grandma since I came to the Academy.” The sobering conclusion hit Chris unexpectedly hard. “I guess I don’t really _have_ a family anymore.”

Phil was quiet for a long moment before he responded to that.

“My parents have been married for thirty-five years,” he said. (Chris privately raised his eyebrow at the non sequitur.) “She’s an engineer, he’s a math teacher. I’ve got two sisters, one older and one younger, and an older brother. Six nieces and nephews. About to be eight; my baby sister’s having twins early next year. No more living grandparents, but I got to meet all four of them.”

That envious pull in Chris’ gut got stronger, and he kind of hated himself for it. “Your family sounds nice,” he said neutrally.

“My family’s your family,” Phil replied firmly. “This is just the pre-meet-and-greet crash course. When I drag your ass home for Christmas, you’ll need to actually _expect_ Mom to try to fatten you up and Dad to have brought home some surly fourteen-year-old stray with a shitty home life.” Phil sighed. “Just… _try_ not to let my niece Audrey get a crush on you, okay? She’s eleven and boy crazy and gets way too attached to anything with curly hair and dimples.”

Chris couldn’t help but laugh, first in surprise, then in genuine amusement.

Phil chuckled too, then sobered. “I know it can’t replace your own,” he said gently, “but I’m happy to lend my crazy clan out anyway.”

Chris felt something warm bubbling up in his chest. “Thanks, Phil.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Intermediate my ass,_ Chris thought as he dozed lightly on the shuttle with his three equally miserable colleagues, on their way back to San Francisco after a week in the Arctic for survival training.

It was…well, it was _exactly_ as hellish as you’d imagine a week of trying to survive in the Arctic would be. Chris was hungry and dirty and his jaw itched from where a week’s worth of stubble had grown in; he was exhausted beyond description and pretty sure he was frostbitten in places he hadn’t even known he could get frostbite. All he wanted in the world was a cup of coffee, Phil’s voice over his shoulder saying _would you like some coffee with your sugar there, Chrissy?,_ a burger the size of his head, and then to slump into the couch cushions with Sam and watch shitty holovids for at least a week.

Sam picked him up at the shuttleport, and she’d never looked so damn good. Chris wrapped her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured.

Sam was quiet for a moment before she spoke into his neck. “Missed you too.”

Getting back to civilization made all thoughts of doing anything but slumping supine on a horizontal surface flee Chris’ mind immediately, so he asked Sam to just take him back to her dorm. She gave a smile that was a little wavery and nodded her assent.

A little question mark burst into existence in Chris’ brain, but he wrote it off as exhaustion run amok.

Sam was quiet on the walk back to her dorm. She asked one question, about how the trip had gone, and Chris told her about the hellishness and the cold and the wind and the ice and the frostbite in unmentionable places. Sam seemed remarkably distracted. Again, Chris wrote it off, just swinging an arm around her and planting a kiss on her crown as they approached her dorm.

As soon as they were inside, Chris dropped his bag, made a beeline for the her sofa, and flopped onto it unceremoniously, groaning in rarefied pleasure. He looked up; Sam was still standing by the door, looking at Chris with an expression he couldn’t analyze when he was this tired. Instead, he patted the space on the couch next to him. “Plenty of room,” he mumbled flirtatiously.

Sam walked over to the couch, sat on the coffee table facing Chris, and without warning, burst into hysterical tears.

Chris flew into a seated position. “What?” he asked frantically. “What is it? What happened?”

Sam just shook her head and continued weeping, trying to catch her breath, while increasingly horrible scenarios played out in Chris’ mind.

“Did something happen to you while I was away? Is it your parents? Your sisters? Did _I_ do something?” Chris reached out and held Sam by the shoulders, running one hand up to cup her face. “Sam, honey, please just talk to me. What is it?”

Sam gave a few great hiccups before finally managing to eke out, “I did something bad.”

Chris tilted his head in confusion, continuing to stroke her cheek. “What did you do?”

A few tears squeezed out of Sam’s eyes as she took a deep breath. “After you left,” she began, “I…I started thinking. About you. About us. And I…Chris, I’m _so sorry.”_

Chris shook his head. “Honey, just tell me.”

Sam’s voice was tiny. “I slept with someone.”

Chris would not have been at all surprised if he later learned that the planet picked that exact moment to stop spinning.

“You…” he breathed, taking his shaking hands off Sam’s body. “You…”

“Chris, I’m so sorry, I’m _so, so sorry.”_

Chris felt his body slip off the couch, felt himself falling to his knees, felt tears spring to his eyes and then overflow without him even trying to stem them.

“Why?” he whispered, when he could finally get his lips to form the word.

Sam wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked as she cried. “I knew I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Chris shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, _no.”_

“Chris,” Sam sobbed, “you’re this _perfect_ man. You’ve got _everything_ …you’re smart and you’re funny and you’re sexy and you’re… _everything.”_ She sniffed loudly. “I couldn’t measure up.”

Chris felt something dangerously like panic building in his chest. “I thought you _loved_ me,” Chris managed. “Why didn’t _that_ measure up? Why didn’t you factor _that_ in?”

Sam just shook her head. “I thought you needed to be with someone on your level,” she clarified. “I’m not. I’m on Hunter’s level.”

“Jesus, Sam, it’s not a fucking _competition!”_ Chris yelled. “Wait a minute – Hunter _Dykstra?_ That’s who you fucked while I was in _Antarctica_ for a week? Hunter motherfucking Dykstra?”

Sam just nodded morosely.

Chris stood up, very emphatically not able to handle this anymore, and strode toward the door.

“I _loved_ you, Sam,” Chris spat. “I’m sorry that wasn’t good enough for you. Because it _always_ would have been for me.”

With that, he grabbed his bag and made his way out of the dorm, not making eye contact with anybody until he landed at his and Phil’s dorm.

Thumbing open the door, Chris dropped his bag and went straight for the booze, to hell with the fact that it was barely noon. He barely even noticed Phil, who was drying his hair after getting out of the shower and looking after him curiously.

“Chris?”

Chris didn’t answer. He just broke the seal, opened a bottle, and took a swig of straight vodka, wincing at the burn as it went down.

“Chris?” Phil tried again.

Chris leaned on the sink, one hand bracing himself while the other clung to the bottle, and kicked the bottom cabinet door in pure fury, making Phil jump a little bit.

“Chris, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Chris took another, slightly gentler swig from the bottle, then furiously brushed the tears out of his eyes. “You were right not to trust her,” he said roughly, his face crumpling.

Phil stared at him, and Chris looked up and met his eyes.

“She cheated on me.”

Phil’s face darkened in a hurry. Then, he pulled down two glasses. “All right,” he said quietly, “whose ass needs kicking this time?”

“Hunter _motherfucking_ Dykstra,” Chris spat out.

Phil cracked open a bottle of club soda and started pouring. “Dykstra…isn’t he that wiry little engineering shit?”

Chris just nodded.

Phil’s eyes narrowed contemplatively. “Yeah, I can take him.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil got Chris just the perfect amount of feelings-numb drunk, then poured him into bed.

The next awful morning, Chris found himself on twenty-four hour medical leave, with a sign-off from P. Boyce, MS-III.


	6. Chapter 6

_Your vessel is within one million kilometers of one of pair of binary stars, but greater than one million kilometers from the other. Explain the sequence of events needed to reverse warp in this circumstance. You may use either Sirak’s Fourth Postulate OR Bosselman’s Theory – not both!_

Chris stared at his PADD. He…had no fucking idea how to solve this problem. Which he probably deserved, having prioritized sleep over studying last night, knowing it was a bad choice even as he was climbing into bed. Swallowing hard, looking around him, he noticed that most of his classmates had already moved on to successive problems, and here he was, stuck as shit on this one. It was unpleasant.

“ORGAN-1,” a voice behind him said.

Chris whirled around in his chair and found himself face to face with Winona Duncan, the TA for his Advanced Warp Mechanics for Non-Engineers class.

“Sorry?” he asked.

Winona smiled and came a little bit closer to him. “It’s a mnemonic for reversing warp in that kind of gravitational field. ORGAN-1. Open your exhaust manifolds on the side of your ship closest to the star, reverse the shield polarity, generate an inverse field matrix, all stop, and navigate away at warp one.” She smiled, nodding in a satisfied way. “ORGAN-1.”

Chris nodded. “Bosselman’s Theory. ORGAN-1.” He smiled. “Thanks.”

Winona smiled at him again, then turned away, her blonde ponytail swishing as she walked away.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Marcus thought it’d be a good idea for Chris to go up for a summer tour of duty. _Real-time, hardcore, in-person experience in the black. Should be a must for any cadet, certainly for command track. You want to know what space is all about, son? You go see it._

Chris…may have bounced off the walls about the suggestion just the tiniest bit, because _I get to go to space!_

He signed on to go up on the USS Hypatia, a science vessel, under a Captain Simmons that Chris had never met and Marcus even admitted he barely knew. It would all be grunt work, he knew, but that was good enough for him. Plus, he planned to go up right when Phil was in the thick of his surgical residency, so perhaps while Chris was up in space it would give Phil a break from feeling guilty when he had to cancel plans at the last minute. Chris never minded, but Phil clearly did.

The moment Chris hit low-orbit, something _material_ in him changed. It was like the event that causes a certain gene to switch on, or the act of shedding light in a darkened room. It didn’t even feel like _I was born to be up here._ It was more like _why did I ever leave this place?,_ even though he himself had never been to space before that moment.

Space felt like home. Those vast stars in all their paradox – alien and familiar, frigid and blazing, close and far…they _surrounded_ him now, as if that big navy blanket was now wrapped around Chris’ body.

He felt like a child again, in the only way he could remember happiness about being a child.

He missed his grandfather _fiercely._

Simmons was nice enough – kind of milquetoast, but there were worse flaws – and the crew was okay, though he didn’t interact with any of them outside of a professional context. There were a good number of his fellow cadets onboard, so some of the people he worked closest with, he already knew – at least by name. The work was, as he suspected, the kind of minor labor they’d only ever give to a cadet. Chris spent most of his days parsing through sociological data on the industrial progress of the species on the planets they were surveying. All were pre-warp, so contact was verboten, but assumptions could be drawn from things like carbon dioxide emissions into the atmosphere, or the amount of ore being mined out of the planet’s crust – iron, copper, things like that.

It should’ve been boring. It was _fascinating._

Chris was an irretrievable introvert. He’d spent his entire life navel-gazing to one degree or another, mostly to his detriment. But now, it was like the mere _act_ of being in space had dragged him both _away_ from himself – his petty problems, his own personality over-analysis – and _closer_ to the more elemental parts of himself – drive, curiosity, passion, excitement, willingness, delight. For the first time since he’d gone up to the roof with Grandpa, he had the impulse to look up and out, rather than down and in.

The one downside?

He missed Phil.

Good god, did he miss Phil.

Being friends with Phil was like having your very own personal Greek chorus. He was the great interpreter, the one who stripped away all the bullshit, synthesized the most important information from all of the drivel, and could turn virtually any situation around to its most advantageous angle. Take the Kobayashi Maru. The day Chris took the exam, he came back to their quarters in a little bit of a state; it had hit him much harder than he’d anticipated, having to sacrifice his ship and all of the people on it to save strangers. It was Phil who noted that the very characteristic of a mind weighed on heavily by the idea of his crew being killed in action was probably emblematic of a good commanding officer in and of itself.

He was also…Phil. They’d become closer than brothers, Chris and Phil, and better friends than most people will ever, ever get in their entire lifetime. Being a few sectors away from him – his counsel, his guidance, his humor, even his physical presence – was rough on Chris, far more than he could’ve anticipated.

The night before the Hypatia was due back at Spacedock, Chris went to the mess hall to get dinner. When he looked up from his Vulcan _tori,_ a woman in cadet reds was looking back at him like he was _her_ dinner.

Ordinarily, Chris would have been wary. But that little ache of loneliness made Chris smile back.

He slept with Evie that night, felt gross about it the next morning, and couldn’t figure out why.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris didn’t know exactly how many strings Phil had to pull to get enough time off to come pick him up from the shuttleport and bring him home, but the sigh of relief Chris gave when he saw his best friend’s smiling, if exhausted, face was well worth the price of admission.

“Welcome home, Chrissy,” Phil said, slinging an arm around him.

They chatted mindlessly on the brief drive home from the shuttleport – Chris about the Hypatia, about space, about the sociological data they’d gathered, and very much not about Evie; Phil about his residency, his residency, his attempts to not tear his hair out, and his residency some more – and were still catching up when Phil thumbed the door to their dorm open.

Chris stopped dead, cocking his head to the side.

The lumpy bumpy awful-on-the-back couch on which Chris had slept for two years was gone. In its place was a cushy, overstuffed green futon that pulled out into an actual double bed. The scratchy blanket was draped over the top of the futon, along with a lighter green blanket that complemented the tones in the futon and looked not nearly so scratchy.

“Bzuwhaa?” Chris said eloquently, pointing at the futon.

Phil gave a soft little smile and shrugged. “I just don’t want to be treating your back problems for the next forty years.” When Chris still looked puzzled, Phil rolled his eyes in affectionate exasperation. “Look, you haven’t been just _crashing on my couch_ for a long damn time, okay? We’re roommates. I have a bed. You deserve a bed. _There.”_ He pointed. “There’s your bed.”

Chris smiled delightedly. “You bought me a bed?”

“I bought you a _futon,”_ Phil corrected, immediately conceding, “to be used as a bed.”

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Phil in a couple of months, or because he was so exhausted, or because he was emotionally wrung-out from the empty experience with Evie last night, but Chris felt like someone had just shot him full of duraphine: light, fluffy, happy, like everything was okay. Without thinking too hard on it, he wrapped Phil in a hug.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Phil squeezed him a little tighter. “It’s what I’m here for.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On stardate 2231.163, at just after 1100 hours, Christopher V. Pike took possession of his shiny new degree in xenosociology with concentrations in diplomatic relations and humanitarianism, thus ending his undergraduate education with Starfleet. Then he turned right back around and entered graduate school.

It wasn’t at all uncommon for command track grads to do this. Not all, but most, captains and admirals had at least one doctorate. Chris, having come to the conclusion after his tour on the Hypatia that he really, _really_ itched for a leadership position out in the black, decided that it’d be to his benefit to get a doctorate too, in order to climb the ladder. He didn’t know what he wanted that doctorate _in_ quite yet, but his advisor – different from his previous advisor, for which Chris was considerably grateful – assured him that he could play around with courses in a couple different departments to try to iron out his field of choice.

It was a far cry from Marcus, who’d rolled his eyes at the xenosociology choice and called it “weak” for a future captain. This from the man whose recruitment speech had included so many words about _discovery_ and _new life_ and _helping_ and _defending_ …how could one possibly hope to do so if one didn’t know the sociological underpinnings of those societies? How do you help and defend without knowing what you’re helping and defending?

Also, Marcus’ undergrad degree was in materials engineering, which, if you wanted to talk about degrees with low utility for a starship captain…well.

_Maybe if I play my cards right I won’t have to deal with him too much in my career,_ Chris thought, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that that hope was in vain.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was in the last twenty minutes of a graduate tactics seminar when his comm went off and every eyeball in the room (there were twenty-nine of them) turned on him. He turned a violent shade of red heretofore unknown to the visible spectrum and made his way quickly out of the lecture hall, flipping his comm open furiously.

“Pike, and this better be good.”

“Hello, sunshine.”

Chris frowned at his comm. “Phil? Where are you? You sound like you’re down a well.”

“Up shit creek’s more like it,” Phil muttered. “I need a favor.”

“Okay, what?”

“After your lecture, could you swing by the Spend and Save? We need bananas, paprika, and I’m almost out of shampoo.”

“Bananas, paprika, your shampoo. Fine, got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah, one more thing,” Phil said offhandedly. “After that, could you swing over to Alameda and bail me out of APD’s custody?”

Chris gaped at his comm for a few seconds. “What the fuck – are you calling me _from jail?!”_

“Technically, I’m calling you from a small room _outside_ of jail, but when I’m off this call, yes, I’ll be in jail.”

“Oh my god. Oh my _god,_ how did you get _arrested?_ You know what? No. Not now. All right, just stay there, okay? I’m on my way.”

“You think I have somewhere else to go right now?”

“And don’t do anything stupid.”

“You talk to me like I’m an amateur at this.”

An hour and five hundred credits later, Phil waltzed pleasantly out of the holding cell, thanking the nice officers for their hospitality. Chris could have murdered him.

_“What the fuck was that?!”_ he burst when they got back to his car.

“Galo Industries protest,” Phil said with a shrug. “They’re a dilithium mining company with a laundry list of labor violations – everything from not paying a living wage to safety violations to illegal boosts to the workforce. One of my patients works for them and was denied bathroom breaks while on the clock for twelve hours a day. She’s thirty-three weeks pregnant and not allowed to _pee._ What’s wrong with them? So I decided to come down and show my support, which turned into barricading the entrance to the facility, which turned into, well…” He gestured vaguely out the window at the police station.

Chris sighed heavily, massaging a spot in his temple that he’d come to refer to privately as the Philip Boyce Pain Point. “You are nothing if not a man of your principles.”

“That may be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Chris.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was asleep.

It was 0300 hours, give or take, and the Academy was heading into its last weekend of freedom before class was back in session after winter break. For Chris, it was bliss; a chance to figure out a concentration for his doctorate and a dissertation subject without the distraction of his hodgepodge class schedule. Phil, alas, got no vacation time regardless; he was on call and unlikely to leave the hospital until Saturday night at the earliest.

For once, Chris’ sleep was quite peaceful – until the commotion started.

_“Get up!”_ he heard distantly, from one of the other cadets, along with a faint banging, like someone was wailing on a door. _“Everybody get up! Turn on your terminals!”_ The banging arrived at Chris’ door. _“Emergency! Turn on your terminals!”_

Chris blearily stumbled off his futon and frowned at the door. _What the hell?_

Flipping his terminal on, it took him a few minutes to really absorb what he was seeing. Then… _oh. Oh, god._

Reports were trickling in, but pretty much all the networks agreed on the basics: The Kelvin was lost. Richard Robau was KIA. Eight hundred lives spared by heroic action. Klingon space. Romulan ship. Lightning storm – _lightning storm?_

George Kirk. George Kirk. George Kirk.

Chris knew him only by name. As an undergrad, he’d cited a paper Kirk had written about acceptable tactical risk. He knew enough from the Starfleet scuttlebutt to know that Kirk was both well-liked and very sharp, and on the fast track to getting command of his own vessel.

One of the networks, probably acting without authorization, mentioned his wife, Winona, nee Duncan. Her, Chris _did_ remember – _warp theory, ORGAN-1, blonde, pretty smile._

They had two little boys, the anchor said, one apparently born just as the evac shuttles were launching.

_Well, that kid’s in for a truckload of daddy issues._

Then the messages started coming in from Starfleet HQ.

_“We are getting reports that the Romulan government…”_

_“You may have heard news outlets reporting that…”_

_“Under no circumstances are cadets authorized to speak with the media…”_

_“The UFP acknowledges the mobilization of senior command…”_

Chris read the comms as they came in, switching from one network to another on his terminal, trying to get a cohesive picture of what had happened. At one point, he looked out his window; the sun was just barely starting to rise, casting long shadows all over the Academy campus. It occurred to Chris that, whatever Starfleet may have been when he signed up in his guidance counselor’s office, it was irrevocably changed now.

This was the defining event for this organization for the foreseeable future, and George Kirk was its defining person.

Chris’ comm went off. _“You heard?”_ Phil had texted him.

_“I did. Jesus, Phil. He saved eight hundred people in the blink of an eye.”_

There was a pause before Phil responded.

_“Nothing’s ever gonna be the same again.”_

Phil always did have a way of cutting through the shit.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Iowa was, if possible, even more flat and corn-covered than Chris had anticipated it would be. And in light of the fact that he’d spent the last seventeen hours surveying Iowa, either from above ground or from the windows of a shuttleport terminal or, now, in the backseat of a taxi, Chris considered himself a newfound expert on the subject.

God, he was dreading this.

For all the confidence he’d gained at the Academy, and for all the human interaction gains his friendship with Phil had brought him, Chris was, in many ways, still the same awkward, uncertain teenager he’d been when he was thirteen and having an anxiety attack about going to Abby Chester’s birthday party. So showing up to the home of an aggrieved widow and asking to interview her about the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death? It made the introvert in Chris want to cringe and hide.

It’s not like he hadn’t _tried_ to contact her. Chris knew he’d want to interview Kelvin survivors, but he’d initially written Winona Kirk off – no doubt her perspective would’ve been incredibly important, but the woman had already been through rather enough. Captain Marcus, however, insisted that Chris at least try. Sure, it might be a long shot, but _think of what kind of perspective it’ll give you in profiling the greatest hero the Federation’s seen in recent history!_

Chris tried to get permission. He tried to give her an opportunity to reject him _before_ he spent all those credits getting to Iowa. But Winona Kirk had all but disappeared into the ether; it was damn near impossible to contact her by any conventional means, even with what contact info Chris had for her only by virtue of being in Starfleet.

He kind of hated himself for “dropping in” for a chat about her dead husband, but Marcus was practically salivating, so he felt obligated. That’s how he wound up on a shuttle from San Francisco to Des Moines, then on a clunky and utterly terrifying shuttle from Des Moines to Iowa City, and now riding in a taxi down increasingly rural roads taking him to Riverside.

He could see why the ‘Fleet was building a new shipyard here. All that open space. (It had nothing to do with this being the hometown of Starfleet’s golden boy. Not a bit.)

When Mrs. Kirk answered her front door, the first thing Chris noticed was how damn _tired_ she looked, eyes slightly sunken, blonde hair gone dull and brittle. For some reason Chris couldn’t explain, the exhaustion on his face reminded him irresistibly of his own mother, another woman who had to use all of her mental resources just to get through each day. It left Chris with a pang under his heart.

Mrs. Kirk had a baby boy dozing lightly on her hip. Chris could hear a children’s program playing on holovid toward the back of the house.

“Mrs. Kirk?” Chris confirmed unnecessarily. She nodded. Chris swallowed. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Christopher Pike. I’m a doctoral candidate at Starfleet Academy.” When Mrs. Kirk just nodded vaguely, Chris clenched his hand, trying to keep the flutter of nervousness out of his voice. “I’m writing my dissertation on the USS Kelvin.”

Something shuttered behind Mrs. Kirk’s eyes.

“I realize I have no right to ask you for this, and it would be completely understandable if you slammed the door in my face right now, but I’d like to ask you some questions about your experiences.” Chris paused, gentling his tone a little. “It is _vital_ to me that any profile I write of your husband be as true to his character as I can make it. Your assistance would be invaluable.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, in which Chris wasn’t so sure he _wouldn’t_ get a door slammed in his face. Finally, Mrs. Kirk looked down to her sleeping son, and then nodded, stepping aside and letting Chris enter the farmhouse.

The house was small, but warm, and in a certain state of necessary disrepair – a side effect, Chris assumed, of having young children, and especially of trying to care for them on one’s own with only survivor’s benefit payments to subsist on. Looking back down a hallway into the house, Chris could see a little boy, maybe four years old, with light brown hair and wide eyes, sitting on the floor and watching TV.

Winona just fell into an armchair, shifting the baby from her hip to her lap. Chris sat tentatively on the couch and set his PADD to the side. He leaned in, trying as best he could to assume an empathetic pose – whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean. Mrs. Kirk stroked her son’s shiny blond hair and stared vacantly at nothing.

Chris took a deep breath. “Could we start by having you tell me where you were when the attack started?”

Mrs. Kirk looked up at Chris, and he was struck again by how dull her eyes were – though now they had a hint, just the _tiniest_ touch, of mischief in them. “I was in medbay,” she began. “In labor,” she added. “With Dr. Xarrasna’s hand up my vagina,” she clearly couldn’t help but contribute.

Chris turned a hectic shade of red.

“I…of course. Right. Yes. So…can you, ah, tell me about the evac process? What route you took through the ship, what you heard, what you saw?”

Mrs. Kirk’s eyes shut down again. “We had to cut through a maintenance chamber on the way to the shuttlebay,” she said flatly. “It – ”

Something metallic sounded in the kitchen, followed by a child’s cry. The elder Kirk child was apparently up to something.

Mrs. Kirk heaved a deep sigh, then unceremoniously handed her baby over to Chris. “Excuse me,” she said, walking to the kitchen.

Chris gaped after her for a second, then looked down at the warm weight of sleeping baby in his arms. He’d never even _touched_ a baby before, let alone tried to hold one. Was he supposed to stay still? Rock? Bounce? Was there a separate protocol for when babies were awake versus when they were asleep? Chris had no idea, so he defaulted to just staying still, holding the little boy awkwardly and semi-upright in his arms.

The boy seemed to cuddle back into Chris, like he was asking for a more secure hold. Chris awkwardly rearranged his arms and tried to give him one, staring down at the chubby, sleeping face.

Or – no, maybe not so sleeping.

The baby’s eyes fluttered open, and Chris struggled to contain a gasp of surprise.

_I didn’t even know that shade of blue existed in nature._

The little boy cocked his head to the side a little and stared up at Chris, a curious little furrow between his eyes, as if to say _hey…you’re not Mom._ For a moment, Chris feared he might start crying, but he stayed quiet, just…studying Chris’ face.

Chris couldn’t take his eyes off the baby and couldn’t figure out why.

_The eyes,_ he filled in for himself. _Gotta be the eyes._

The baby’s eyes fell from Chris’ face to the collar of his cadet reds, where they widened in delight. Chris reached up and touched – what was the kid looking at? did he have a pimple? did he cut himself shaving? – but his hand only landed on the Starfleet insignia every cadet wore on the collar.

“Hey. You like that?” Chris said softly.

The baby gurgled a little and made grabby hands at the little metallic arrowhead, struggling to sit up and touch it. Chris instinctively supported his back as he put a chubby hand up to the symbol, examining it, giggling delightedly when it caught the light, little crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes.

Chris, enchanted, couldn’t help but smile back at him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris zoned completely out on the flight home from Spacedock, mind whirling.

He was on his way home from his graduate tour of duty, a short stint aboard the USS Turing, whose focus was to open trade negotiations with the Kybratha, who were notoriously militaristic (bad) and had a planet exceptionally rich in minerals (very, very good). As a doctoral cadet, Chris thought himself lucky enough – _heh_ – to be a part of the landing party, along with the captain, a security detail, and a member of the engineering team to explain how exactly the Federation could manage to get to the Kybratha minerals without wrecking the planet.

It started with a banquet. A chance for the Kybratha to boast of their prowess and issue some thinly veiled threats about _if your Federation takes one step out of turn, so help us._ However, Chris kept his eyes on Captain Shaw, who seemed to be holding her own in the delicate negotiations; if he had to guess, this was going to come out in the Federation’s favor.

Then a group of rogue Kybratha attacked the banquet, pulse rifles blazing. Chris grabbed his own phaser and squeezed off a few shots, most ineffectual but two that stunned the rogues and one that knocked the phaser rifle out of a third’s hand. Chris watched two Kybratha fall by the rogue agents’ hands, including the one who’d been doing most of the talking to Captain Shaw. Then, to his epic horror, he saw the Turing’s two security lieutenants and the engineer all crumple to the ground.

One of the security lieutenants, a sharp older woman named Claire, had been standing right next to him, covering his fire. The look in her eyes as she stared up, blank and unseeing, was something Chris doubted would ever leave him.

He’d commed Phil about it – just the facts, no feelings – so when Phil picked him up at the shuttleport, he’d expected to see Chris looking pretty wrung out. And so he was. Phil just wound an arm around Chris and walked him out to the car, driving them home without a word.

Hours later, once Chris had eaten and showered and put on some clean clothes, he and Phil sat on the couch. They kept the TV off; Chris couldn’t speak for Phil, but he really just needed to exist quietly in that moment.

“You know what?” Chris said, very softly.

“Hmm?” Phil hummed.

“I missed you.” Chris ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. “I mean, I did even before…everything happened. But after it did, not having you there to debrief with me, to talk me down, to make me see reason…I underestimate how much I need you, I think.”

Phil smiled a private little smile. “You old romantic,” he teased gently.

Chris took a deep breath. “Can you promise me something? Can we make a deal, or a…a kind of a pact?”

“What about?”

“I know we won’t always be in control of it,” Chris said, “and I know you have to finish your fellowship before you go back out there…but once that’s done, unless I don’t have a choice in the matter, I really don’t want to go into space again without you there.” He looked up at Phil, eyes haunted and kind of pleading. “I need you with me. I need your guidance.” He averted his eyes, flushing a little. “I need your friendship.”

“You’re always gonna have my friendship, Chris. That’s not distance-dependent.” Phil grabbed Chris’ hand and linked their pinkies together. “But, so long as we have a choice, we go together or we stay together.”

Chris smiled and nodded. “We go together or we stay together.”

He paused for a beat, then had to ask it. “Phil? What the _hell_ are you doing with our hands?”

Phil snorted. “My little niece tells me that pinky swears are at least equally biding as blood oaths. Possibly more so.”

Chris gave a wry smile. “You think that’ll hold up in Federation court?”

Phil shrugged. “Let’s keep this promise and we’ll never have to find out.”


	7. Chapter 7

It had taken the better part of five years, several dozen sleepless nights, more than sixty interviews, and Chris taking to wearing a chain around his neck with a backup-backup- _backup_ chip of his dissertation dangling on it like a pendant, but at _very_ long last, Christopher Pike was _Doctor_ Christopher Pike, with a real old-fashioned scroll diploma from the Department of Military Strategy and Tactics to prove it. And it was _awesome._

The feeling of not being a student anymore, after being one consistently since the age of three, was also…a little disconcerting.

Fortunately, he already had a job opportunity waiting for him as soon as his doctorate was conferred. Captain Jack Tryczynski of the USS Sagan had been impressed enough with Chris’ record to request him for his new chief helmsman. The Sagan, a comparatively small science vessel with a top cruising speed of warp 4.4, was designated for short-term investigatory missions, meaning Chris would go up for short bursts in the black interspersed with time on Earth.

It was the kind of assignment they’d really only give a newbie, but Chris wasn’t complaining about getting his feet wet in a fairly low-pressure environment.

Better, though, was that he got to get out of that damned red jumpsuit that he’d been living in for the past ten years and finally, _finally_ get into the command gold tunic he’d been picturing on himself since they changed the active duty uniforms for officers a few years earlier. He went to pick up his new, official, non-cadet uniform with a bit of a spring in his step.

Of course – _of course_ – they’d apparently messed it up.

“Sir, my rank stripes appear to be wrong,” Chris protested at the quartermaster’s office.

The quartermaster frowned, tugged the tunic toward him, and shook his head. “No, Lieutenant Commander Pike, they’re not.”

Chris blinked. “But…but I was told I was to be commissioned as a lieutenant?”

The quartermaster gave an indifferent shrug. “Not according to my paperwork,” he said. “Something about performance on the Turing? Whatever. I just make ‘em how they tell me.”

Chris cocked his head to the side, running his thumb over the thin second band of gold on his tunic. “Lieutenant Commander,” he murmured to himself.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Chris’ first meeting with Tryczynski, Chris came back to his and Phil’s apartment in a better than average mood. It lowered considerably as soon as he walked into the darkened dorm and his intuition started buzzing.

“Phil?” he called.

Silence.

“Phil?” he tried again, sticking his head into the kitchen.

“I’m in here, Chris,” Phil’s voice called back from the bedroom, sounding strangely hollow.

Chris followed it and found Phil lying on his bed, one knee bent, one arm flung over his forehead. He was staring at the ceiling, oddly expressionless.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked, tentatively approaching the bed.

Phil visibly swallowed and shook his head. Chris sat down next to him and waited patiently for him to speak.

“Lost two patients,” Phil finally managed, voice sounding tight.

“Oh, god,” Chris murmured.

Chris wasn’t an idiot; the loss of a patient was obviously never going to be easy on any doctor. For a doctor like Phil, who, while perfectly proficient in many areas of medicine, delighted in his specialty of women’s health and rarely had to experience a patient’s death, it would naturally be harder. And for a _man_ like Phil, whose every cell was dedicated to justice, the loss of two lives he’d fought to save…that had to be exceptionally rough.

“Phil, I’m so sorry,” Chris said softly. “So, so sorry.”

Phil took a deep breath and looked like he was barely keeping his emotions contained. Slowly, he patted the space in the bed next to him, wordlessly encouraging Chris to lie down with him.

Chris did, on his side, facing Phil.

“What happened?” Chris asked. “I mean…if you don’t want to, you don’t – ”

“Placental abruption,” Phil said dully. “She bled out. Didn’t even know she was pregnant.” He swallowed. “I couldn’t stop it.”

_Two patients._ “Her baby?”

Phil shook his head. “We tried,” he said tightly. “She was just…her lungs…” Phil shut his eyes and took a deep breath; Chris saw a tear escape from Phil’s eye and roll toward his temple. “Modern medicine’s great, but even now, for an eighteen weeker…”

Chris reached out and swiped the tear off Phil’s face without thinking about it. Phil squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his head to face Chris.

“They try to prepare you for it,” he said hoarsely. “Psych classes. Role playing. Clinical empathy, emotional distance, blah blah blah…” Phil shook his head. “It’s all for naught, when it happens. You can’t be prepared. There’s no bracing yourself for impact.”

Chris somehow found himself with an arm around Phil. “It’s like the Kobayashi Maru,” he said softly. “It’s to try to prepare you for the unpreparable.”

Phil nodded miserably. “You get it.”

“I do,” Chris affirmed, letting them lapse into a comfortable silence.

“You wanna just lay here for a while?” Chris asked.

Phil settled his head on Chris’ shoulder. “Yes please.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris hated dress uniforms. The material was too hot, the collar too tight, and no matter how “tailored” they allegedly were, they always, always managed to fit his long, lanky body strangely, like Starfleet had no idea how to handle such a frame. But here he was, wearing the damned dress uniform anyway, sipping on a drink in a ballroom and wondering when he could leave.

“You’re falling into antisocial prig territory,” Erin chided him gently.

Chris glared up at her. “You’re my date, not my party-minder.”

“Oh, honey,” Erin laughed, “I have been, and always shall be, both.” She picked up both their drinks, handed his to him, and held out her arm. “Take my arm and mingle like a good little officer.”

Chris whined unbecomingly, but conceded defeat and took her arm.

Starfleet had really gone all out for the celebration of the Sagan’s science team, who last month had observed a quasar octet – eight quasars in close proximity to one another – the first observed by sentient life in the known universe. By all accounts, it had been exceptionally cool. Apparently Lieutenant Kelley and Ensign Manger actually cried over the beauty.

Chris wouldn’t know. He was on graveyard that week and slept straight through it.

But when Starfleet saw the data, they invited the entire crew of the Sagan, and plus ones, to this glitzy affair, complete with an open bar and hors d’oeuvres and (Chris gagged a little in his head) _mingling._

He still hated parties. At least he had Erin on his arm to keep him sane.

“Introduce me to someone,” Erin prompted him.

“Who?” Chris muttered.

“Anybody you know,” Erin said. “Just to get a conversation going.” She pinched his arm lightly. “Do it.”

Chris took a deep breath and steered them over. Brian McCullough, the Sagan’s chief ops officer, was standing against the wall.

“Lieutenant Commander Pike,” McCullough offered in his Irish brogue.

“Lieutenant McCullough,” Chris greeted.

“Enjoying the festivities?”

“I wouldn’t jump straight to ‘enjoying,’” Chris replied honestly. Erin stepped on his foot with feeling. “I mean, it’s more for the science geeks, isn’t it?” he rapidly amended.

“Hey,” Erin said, poking him in the side this time. “You lay off us science geeks.”

Chris rolled his eyes affectionately. “Lieutenant Brian McCullough, Dr. Erin Lowe. My date-slash-social-manager for the evening.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Lowe,” McCullough said, shaking her hand. “We have a bit of a thing in common; I’m managing this one’s dance card.”

McCullough waved his hand aimlessly behind him at the woman who was so clearly his date, who…

_Oh. Oh my._

“Lieutenant Commander Christopher Pike, this is my little sister, Siobhan,” McCullough introduced them.

Siobhan looked up at him, and Chris felt all the air leave his lungs in a very unexpected rush. She was petite – not a full foot shorter than Chris, but probably near to it – and curvy, with dark hair in a French twist, creamy skin, and big blue eyes, made bluer by the dress she was wearing. Then she smiled, and Erin was suddenly bearing a good bit more of Chris’ weight as his knees weakened.

“Hi, Siobhan,” Chris heard himself say, extending his hand.

Siobhan’s already rosy cheeks pinked even more as she took his hand. “Hello, Mr. Pike.”

Her voice sounded like music. It was _killing_ him.

“Well,” McCullough interrupted the moment by clearing his throat, “shall we get a bit more punch, love?” He was looking at Siobhan with an expression that clearly did not broker any argument.

Siobhan reluctantly dragged her eyes away from Chris, over to Brian, where she nodded. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured, before following her brother into the crowd.

Chris stared after her, feeling for all the world like he’d just jumped from low orbit.

“Put that tongue back in your mouth, you heathen,” Erin teased.

An hour later, the evening was coming to a close, and Chris hadn’t seen Siobhan again, though not for lack of trying. She wasn’t at any of the tables, she wasn’t in the hall, and according to Erin, she wasn’t in the ladies’ room, either. Lieutenant McCullough was still there, though, so Siobhan _had_ to be here somewhere, didn’t she?

“Can’t you just ask her brother for her frequency?” Erin asked from the bar, having kicked off her shoes and was massaging her feet with abandon.

“I’m not going to _ask her brother for her frequency,_ Erin, god,” Chris snapped. “This isn’t high school.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “It’s not Cinderella, either. She’s not just gonna magically reappear. Chris, they’re gonna kick us out if we stay here any longer.”

“Just…just wait a second, okay? I’m gonna look one more place, and then we’ll go. Promise.”

Erin sighed. “You’re buying me another martini.”

“Deal.”

Chris walked to the far end of the hall, peered out a set of French doors, and… _there._

Siobhan, on the balcony, in her pretty blue dress.

Chris opened the door. Siobhan jumped and turned to see him coming out, then looked down and flushed beautifully pink.

_God, I’m done for._

“Hey there,” he said, low and grumbly.

“Hello, Mr. Pike,” she said softly, lilting.

“Call me Chris,” he said.

Siobhan smiled shyly. “Chris.” His knees weakened a little more.

“I’m getting ready to leave, but I really didn’t want to without seeing you again,” Chris said softly. “I have the feeling I’d like to see you more. Would that be okay?”

Siobhan looked up at him and flushed even more. Chris realistically considered himself rather shy at social gatherings like this one, but he was a regular social butterfly compared to her. _God,_ what a pretty blush.

“I…I think I’d like that. Chris,” she said softly. 

Chris smiled broadly and couldn’t help but reach out and touch her cheek, brushing away a dark tendril that had fallen out of her twist. “You’re so pink,” he teased gently.

Siobhan smiled so it crinkled her nose, then bit her lower lip, and Chris simply _could not help himself._

“Oh, god, could I kiss you right now?”

“All right,” Siobhan whispered.

It was, all things considered, a comparatively chaste kiss. Chris still left the hall with butterflies in his stomach.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Dr. Haber, the Sagan’s CMO, somehow contracted Andorian shingles – Chris had no idea how that had happened and wasn’t inclined to ask too many questions – they needed a replacement until she was well enough to resume her duties. They were going out for about a month, on their way to make first contact with a planetoid called Ri’Schritz, who’d been flirting with the Federation for a couple of years. With any luck, they’d leave with a new Fed member.

Much to Chris’ delight, Phil, who’d been completing part of his fellowship with traditional midwives on Bajor, was next on the schedule for a rotation in the black, and so Chris found himself with a new (old) roomie. Chris, who’d been an unusual breed of temperamental lately, thought it would improve his mood to have his best friend in the next room, as opposed to the next sector.

Ri’Schritz itself was a temperate, lush planet, slightly more humid than human tastes would typically call for, but not unpleasant by any stretch of the imagination. There were waterfalls at every turn and an abundance of greenery. The people, who called themselves B’Ri’Schritz, were humanoid only by the broadest of definitions: most were considerably taller and thinner than humans, with skin tones ranging from mint green to deep purple, three antennae, and at least six eyes. Their species also had five sexes.

The B’Ri’Schritz were, for the most part, calm and congenial, with an uncommon love of language – not just of their own, but of all cultures. That was, in fact, a major motivating factor for them wanting to join the Federation; they lusted after the idea of exposing their people to all these other means of communicating from all across the galaxy. Tryczynski beamed down with his first officer, a security lieutenant, and Ensign Hussain from communications. Hussain was treated like a rockstar.

Chris, for his part, was glad to stay onboard. The people seemed lovely and the planet beautiful, but…that many eyes stirred some kind of primal _nope_ in Chris.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tell me again why you’re spared this torture tonight?” Phil whined as he tugged at the cuffs of his dress uniform.

Chris looked at him with patient affection, as one might a petulant child. “Because I have to stay and mind the store while you’re off making nice.”

“I’m a doctor, not a diplomat,” Phil intoned. “Why do _I_ have to be there?”

This time, Chris didn’t even look up from his holovid. “I’m not the one who decided Nonverbal Communication of the Alpha Quadrant was the perfect class to satisfy his language requirement.”

“Only because my advisor told me my established fluency in Sighs of the Californian Pike didn’t count,” Phil grumbled.

Chris sighed.

“Yeah, that one means you’re sick of your best friend’s bitching,” Phil said seamlessly.

Chris rolled his eyes. “This is not the calamitous situation you’re imagining it to be. You go down there, you have a meal, you don’t make an ass of yourself, and you come home. Another fine Federation olive branch extended.”

Phil gave him a Look. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

Chris shuddered. “Eyeballs.”

“Right. Sorry.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A couple of beautifully uneventful hours passed before Chris’ comm chirped.

“Pike.”

“Hey, Chris,” Phil’s voice replied neutrally.

“…um. Hey, Phil,” Chris said slowly. “Why are you calling me?”

“Okay, uh…promise you won’t get mad.”

There was a beat. _“What the fuck did you do?”_

Phil sighed. “It’s _possible_ that I might be in the main holding cell in the capital city.”

_“Jesus Christ, Phil!_ How the hell did you manage to get yourself taken to _jail_ on an _alien world?!”_

“You don’t understand,” Phil protested calmly. “I was talking to one of the servers at the dinner, P’Ri’Kalt, who said that the ze’lar – that’s apparently the word for “fifth gender” in their language – are completely systemically oppressed by the government, just on the basis of their sex. Socially, economically, politically, medically…it’s just not right! So, P’Ri’Kalt knew of a protest going on, and I went down there, to, y’know, show the Federation’s support for gender equality, and, well…”

“And you got yourself _fucking arrested_ on an _alien world_ under consideration for _Federation membership,”_ Chris spat.

“I was doing what I believed was right,” Phil said with serene firmness. “And what the Federation claims to support, too. Now,” he continued without pause, “while this is one of the nicer detention facilities I’ve patronized, it’s still, as you mentioned, an alien jail, so, would you mind?”

“Where’s Trycyznski?” Chris demanded.

Phil’s voice turned amused. “Last I saw, being chatted up by a lovely looking nine-eyed violet woman.”

“Where’s Hussain?”

“Oh, I’m _quite_ sure Hussain’s getting laid right now.”

Chris buried his face in his hands, thinking fast, then storming off to the transporter room, hoping against hope it’d be deserted at this hour.

“You have _no idea_ how badly you owe me,” he groaned.

“Oh, I think I do,” Phil answered.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thirty hellish minutes later – involving a large, green, seven-eyed guard, a hush-hush meeting with a diplomatic authority, and the gifting of the unabridged dictionaries of twenty-nine different Federation member worlds in exchange for Phil’s release – Chris found himself peering at his best friend through a set of lilac-tinted bars.

Phil sighed, looking genuinely remorseful. “Thank you,” he said with a small smile.

Chris did not return it. “I _cannot believe you,”_ he muttered.

“Really?” Phil said affably. “I find this entirely in character for me.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris thumbed the door to his quarters open a little more aggressively than was necessary, strictly speaking, and Phil waltzed right in, flopping on Chris’ couch with a sigh of rarefied pleasure. “Ah, you’re the best, Christopher.”

Chris glared at him, unsnapping his uniform jacket and tossing it over the back of his chair, and began pacing. “I have _absolutely no idea_ how I’m going to cover this with Tryczynski.”

Phil gave him a dismissive wave. “With how much nice you made with the B’Ri’Schritz? Gifting them _dictionaries?_ Tryczynski’ll never know a thing. Stop worrying.”

“I’ll have to erase the transporter logs, too. And make it look like a computer error. And _fuck,_ I hate coding.”

“You worry too much. And would you please sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”

Chris sighed, rubbing both his eyes before he sat next to Phil. “I can honestly say I never thought a doctorate in tactics would be most effectively used _bailing my best friend out of an alien jail and covering up the evidence.”_

“And you say you’re not a maverick,” Phil said affectionately, ruffling Chris’ hair and moving to his replicator. “You hungry?”

“Didn’t you eat on the planet?”

“I was busy hanging out with the kitchen help and then getting arrested. Again I ask: You hungry?”

He was actually, but for the moment, he preferred to sulk. “No.”

Phil turned on him, frowning. “What crawled up your ass and died? And don’t say it’s this business with the B’Ri’Schritz, because I know you better, and you’ve been on a short fuse since I got here, and a little before then, even.”

Chris sighed, closing his eyes. He needed to get less perceptive friends. “It’s not you, don’t worry. I mean, except tonight. Tonight was _definitely_ you.” Phil smirked. Chris sighed again. “Got a lot on my mind. Just…frustrated.”

Phil set a ham and cheddar on sourdough in front of Chris, and before Chris could even form the thought _again, I need less perceptive friends,_ Phil nodded sagely. “Ah. You need to get laid.”

Chris opened one eye and glared at Phil out of it. “Don’t you have somebody to hypo right now or something?”

“No,” Phil said smoothly, wiping a spot of mustard out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ve only been up here for a few weeks; I’ve _definitely_ seen you go longer without than this. You and your little Irish lass fighting or something?”

Chris gave up all pretense and bit into his sandwich. “No.” Then, without knowing _what_ the hell possessed him to keep talking, he said, “And we’re not sleeping together.”

Phil went very still beside him. Chris concentrated on his sandwich for several beats before turning to face his best friend, who had a furrow of confusion between his brows.

“What?” Chris asked.

“You and Siobhan…aren’t sleeping together?” Phil clarified slowly, and Chris could hear that he was trying to keep a note of incredulity out of his voice.

“Siobhan and I aren’t sleeping together,” Chris confirmed. “Eat your sandwich.”

Phil did not comply. “You’ve been seeing her for six months, Chris – ”

“I’ve been in space for some of that time,” Chris mumbled.

“ – and that’s a _hell_ of a long time to go without in a committed relationship.”

Chris sighed. “I’m aware of that, Philip.”

“Especially for you; you’re a touch addict.”

Chris shot Phil the dirtiest of looks. Phil didn’t even blink.

“Don’t give me that look. You pretend it’s not true, but it is.”

Chris continued to glare. “Are all ships’ doctors such dirty old men?”

Phil didn’t so much as pause. “Why haven’t you – ”

“Look, she doesn’t want to yet, so we’re not yet. End of story. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some transporter logs to hack. _For some reason.”_ Chris sat back, propping his feet up on the coffee table, and brought up the specs on a PADD, perfectly aware that Phil was still watching him with a critical eye.

They were silent for several minutes when Phil blurted, “She’s a virgin, isn’t she?”

Chris dropped the PADD.

“That’s why you haven’t slept together,” Phil continued unprompted.

Chris gaped at Phil. “How – _the fuck_ – did you figure that out?”

Phil shrugged. “I dunno. She’s pretty young. She’s really shy. She’s from a pretty conservative country. She’s got – what – six older brothers?”

“Eight,” Chris corrected weakly.

“Right, a small army,” Phil continued. “It just…sorta…makes sense.” He shrugged again.

Chris just stared at Phil for a moment, agog, before he remembered how to move his tongue. “Please, _please_ promise me that you won’t give her any reason to believe you know that. _Please.”_

Phil waved a dismissive hand. “I’m a doctor,” he scoffed, as if that settled the issue – and for Phil, it probably did. “So, are you guys gonna…?” Phil trailed off, a very Cheshire cat grin spreading over his face. “You know…?”

Chris looked at Phil flatly. “No, _Doctor Boyce,_ I don’t know; please, enlighten me.”

The eyeroll Phil gave was quite impressive. “Are you going to have sex with your girlfriend when we get home?”

“Wow,” Chris said dryly. “You know, it’s funny – I already knew I _very emphatically did not want to talk to you about this,_ but now that it’s happening? I want to talk to you about it _even less!”_

Phil kicked him. “I’m your best friend. Indulge me. What have you guys done together?”

“Nope,” Chris said, popping the “p” with his lips. “We are not having this conversation.”

_“Ugh,”_ Phil groaned, leaning back against the arm of the couch and kicking Chris’ thigh with both feet. “You’re such a boring best friend when you’re not bailing me out of jail.”

Chris heaved a spectacular, _I hate you so much sigh,_ and then, in a moment he felt certain he would relive over and over again in his nightmares, spoke. “It’s not like we haven’t tried. A couple times, actually. But she got a little freaked out, so we stopped. End of story. It’s not the salacious thing you’re making it out to be.”

“Is it pain she’s worried about?” Phil pressed. “Because I can get you some medical-grade lube that’ll really ease the – ”

_“Oh my god stop talking,”_ Chris said from behind the hand scrubbing his face.

Phil ignored him, that dick. “I’m just expressing concern, okay? It’s what I do. I know you hate talking about this, but _I_ do it all day long. I commend your patience with her, and I know this has to be making you _crazy._ And if there’s something I can do for her, medically speaking, to make it easier on her, then you know I’ll do it.”

Chris softened a bit, sighing again. “It’s not a pain thing. It’s an anxiety thing. Okay? We’re gonna try again when I get back, and it’ll be fine. _The end.”_

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, leaving _if you say so_ unsaid.

There was a beat.

Then: “I’m serious, if you need that medical lube, I can – ”

“Philip John, I am _this close_ to smothering you with this pillow and spacing your ass.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Years later, when he looked back on the experience, Chris would reflect that he learned three things from having sex with Siobhan for the first time.

The first was that he very much did _not_ get off on causing his partner pain. (Which he already kind of knew, but the dart of _no panic no make it better no_ that zinged through his heart when she winced really hammered it home for him.)

The second was that Phil was right, _the perceptive asshat,_ and he was, in fact, a touch addict. (Which, again, he kind of already knew; but having her look up at him, big blue eyes and wild dark hair and kiss-bitten lips and full breasts and flared hips and skin and skin and _skin,_ made him recognize how profoundly addicted he really was.)

The third was that really, really good sex, especially after going a long while without, made him do some epically stupid shit.

He was still inside her, still kissing the beads of sweat off her forehead, when she said, “I want to marry you” and when he said “okay” and when she said “you mean it?” and when he said “sure, let’s get married.”

The metric ton of _what the fuck_ didn’t hit him until the following day.


	8. Chapter 8

The fifth of May dawned clear, blue, and…sinus-y. Chris’ face throbbed in an unpleasant cadence, and his head felt like it weighed more than a starship. He tried to inhale through his nose, but nothing got through. Faintly, as if through a pair of earmuffs, he could hear someone in the kitchen, banging around. _Phil._

He stumbled out of bed, tugged a t-shirt on, and headed for the kitchen, where he slumped in the doorway. “Phil,” he said, voice scratchy and pained, “I really don’t feel good.”

When Phil turned to face Chris, his expression took on mild alarm. “You sound awful. C’mere, sit.”

Chris slumped into a chair, then leaned forward, his head bonking against the kitchen table with a resounding _thunk._ He could hear the low whir of Phil running a tricorder over his head.

“All right, well, good news is, you’re not dying,” Phil said blithely. “Bad news is, it’s pretty bad hay fever and probably makes you _feel_ like you’re dying.” He paused, considering. “Or _wish_ you were dying.”

Chris pointed at Phil in affirmation of the statement without raising his head from the table.

“I’m gonna give you an antihistamine hypo now and again before we leave,” Phil said, depressing the hypo against Chris’ neck, “and then I’m gonna get you some coffee. Something warm will help.”

Chris took a sip from the steaming mug Phil put in front of him, then blanched, standing and heading for the counter. “Needs more sugar.”

Phil rolled his eyes, donning his “documentary monologue” voice. “And though the enterprising work of Pakistani scientists eradicated diabetes worldwide in the late twenty-first century, it only took the work of one Californian man to bring it _roaring_ back, all before his thirtieth birthday.”

Chris stirred two tablespoons of sugar into his coffee, then added a third just to make Phil’s head explode a little more.

Phil rolled his eyes again, then handed Chris a slice of bacon. “Eat. You feeling okay? I mean, I know you feel crappy _there,”_ Phil gestured to Chris’ head, “but…you freaking out at all?”

Chris swallowed his bacon. “Only when I think about it.”

Phil just looked at him with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “You sure about this?”

Chris looked down, staring into his coffee cup, and shrugged slightly. “I love Siobhan.”

“Not really what I asked.”

Chris shrugged again, kind of numbly. “If I love her, I should marry her, shouldn’t I?”

He felt Phil’s stare on his forehead as he continued to gaze into his coffee. “You know how I feel about the word ‘should.’”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

“No,” Phil was quick to respond, “no, I’m not. I’m just trying to make sure that you’re doing what’s best for you. That’s all.”

Chris nodded. “I am.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I think I am.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris had never really imagined his wedding day, but even so, he knew there were some elements that he wasn’t interested in. Black-tie was one of them. The involvement of a church was another. Being sick as a dog on the big day wasn’t, either, not that he thought that really needed to be mentioned.

But, behold – the fifth of May dawned, and he got all three.

Phil stood behind Chris at the altar, trying hard not to laugh as Chris let out a series of sneezes. “You poor sap,” he murmured affectionately, tugging down the collar of Chris’ dress uniform and hypoing him again with an antihistamine.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep at my own wedding with that shit,” Chris muttered. “In front of all these nice people, too.”

Phil shrugged. “I’m right behind you. I’ll catch ya.”

“God, I love you,” Chris murmured.

Music started. Phil clapped a gentle hand on Chris’ shoulder. “Love you too, Chrissy.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Siobhan’s family was large, and loud, and Irish. Really, the only one of them Chris knew other than Siobhan herself was her brother, Brian, who served with him on the Sagan, and even they weren’t that close. Siobhan, for all her extreme shyness in many situations, _worked_ that reception hall; dancing with everyone, laughing with everyone, having a grand time with her family and friends.

Chris’ side of things was represented by Phil, Erin, and Erin’s wife. That was it.

When they’d started making the guest list and realized how lopsided the “bride’s guests” and “groom’s guests” were going to be, Siobhan had gently suggested that they let everyone sit wherever they wanted, as opposed to having separate sides of the aisle. She diplomatically said it was to “help people to mingle – it’ll be more festive that way!” Chris knew she was just too kind to say that three people on one side of the aisle would look stupid compared to the dozens on the other.

Erin and her wife had gotten up to dance, Siobhan was dancing with her stepbrother, her beautiful white gown fluttering around her ankles as she twirled, and Chris was sitting at a table with Phil, sipping on a flute of champagne that had started to go flat, watching the proceedings and not knowing what to do with himself, which was one of his least favorite feelings. He looked out the window and saw Spacedock dancing on the horizon, and for a brief, beautiful moment, he longed to be back up in the black. At least there, he knew what to do at any given moment and when to do it, and he delighted in the work. What was expected of him was clear, and nobody ever asked him to be anything that he wasn’t.

Chris passively noted that these were probably not the greatest thoughts to have at one’s own wedding reception.

He could feel Phil’s eyes on him, blue and burning, but didn’t look up. Something was curdling in his gut that he didn’t think had anything to do with his seasonal allergies, something that he was doing his level best to pretend didn’t exist. It wasn’t regret, or doubt, or even confusion – just a kind of numbness overlaying a gnawing dread.

It was the kind of paralysis that comes from feeling trapped.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Chris, can we talk about having a baby soon?”

Siobhan asked it on a subspace comm to Chris, three months after their wedding, while she was at their home in Marin and he was out in the Principian sector on the Sagan.

It had all the hallmarks of a death knell.

Chris took a deep breath. “Honey…”

“I know,” Siobhan protested, cutting him off, “I know, but think about it, all right? I know you have some mixed feelings on the subject, but I think if you sit down and really concentrate on what it’d be like to have a baby, a little bit of you and me together, you’d start to crave it.”

The truth was, there were no “mixed feelings” on the subject. When Chris thought about what it’d be like to have a baby – even with his beautiful, bright wife, who he loved so dearly – it felt more like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Not much had changed with regard to Chris’ feelings about ever having children since he’d dated Elizabeth Sadler in high school, except perhaps some reinforcement of his thought that he’d be a terrible father. Siobhan had known this since early in their relationship; Chris had made it clear to her, wanting to avoid another Elizabeth situation.

But Elizabeth had dumped him when she realized their ideas on having children were different. Siobhan had married him. Chris assumed that her willingness to marry him conveyed an acceptance of his not wanting kids.

“Please, Chris, just consider it?” Siobhan said, in a voice perilously close to begging. “I know it’s a big step, and I know it’s something I want more than you do, but can you just think about it? Please?”

Chris sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said, smiling softly at the dear face on the screen. “Let’s talk about this when I get back home, okay?”

Siobhan looked only a little appeased. “All right.”

The call was terminated. Something unpleasant squirmed in Chris’ stomach.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“I’m pregnant!”_

_Panic._

_Tiny, squirming, screaming, helpless child, looking to him for comfort._

_Worry, every second of every day. What is he up to? What if her needs aren’t being met?_

_Bad father. Neglectful father. Selfish father. Absent father._

_Hurting kid, broken kid, afraid kid, ashamed kid._

_Burden. Burden. Burden._

_“No fatherly instinct.”_

_Grounded, so far from the stars, lassoed down, unable to touch._

_More kids. Two. Three. Chaos._

_Claustrophobic lonely trapped afraid lost trapped bad father bad father trapped –_

Chris woke up in a cold sweat. Again.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Phil and I have had a tete-a-tete on your predicament,” Erin said authoritatively, “and the way we see it, her wanting kids right now has a twofold motivation.”

Phil nodded in agreement with Erin’s statement. Chris stared at them on the screen of his terminal, then took another swig of antacid.

“Put that shit down before I have to come up there and manually disimpact you,” Phil chided.

“Do I want to know what that is?”

“No, but you’re gonna find out real quick if you don’t stop chugging antacids like they’re water,” Phil answered seamlessly.

_“Twofold,”_ Erin interrupted loudly, casting glares both to her right at Phil and to the screen at Chris. “In the first place, Siobhan really does want children.”

Chris scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t.”

“I know that,” Erin continued, “and you’ve told _her_ that, but I think she – in the grand ancient tradition of people thinking they can change their partners – thought she could change your mind. Now, you’ve said you’ll think about it, which is healthy and respectful; but thinking about it is clearly poisoning your life, which is…not good.”

“Obviously,” Chris said dryly, raking a hand through his hair.

“I think there’s a deeper motivation here, though,” Erin added, more gently this time. “Chris, she’s lonely.”

Chris frowned, cocking his head at the screen. “Lonely?”

“Think about it, Chris,” Phil interjected. “She’s on the other side of the world from her entire family, all twenty-however many of them. Her husband’s in space. Hell, her brother’s up there, too, and he’s probably the only one she really knows who’s based in the Bay Area.”

“I have a cordial enough relationship with her, but we’re hardly best friends,” Erin added. “We don’t have much in common. We don’t hang out or spend time together as friends. We’re more acquaintances than anything.”

“She doesn’t have people here, Chris,” Phil said gently. “Her people is _you,_ and you’re in space.”

Chris frowned deeply. “So…what, she wants to have a kid for the _company?”_

“No,” Erin countered, “but I think she thinks that having a pregnant wife, and then a kid or two, might motivate _you_ to stay on Earth more.”

Chris considered this possibility, looked out his window at the stars, and knocked back the antacid bottle again. Phil didn’t have the heart to chastise him about it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris came home in October, sat on the couch with Siobhan, and held her hand.

“Honey,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could, “I told you, when we first got together, that I knew I didn’t want children.”

Siobhan nodded. Her lips pursed as if she was getting ready to interject, but Chris kept speaking, forestalling her.

“And you asked me to consider the idea, to try to make myself want it as much as you did.” He took a deep breath. “Well…I did. I tried.”

Siobhan’s face was falling and falling fast.

“Siobhan, I tried so hard, because I knew this was something you wanted,” he said lowly, “but the fact remains that I just don’t want to be a father. I don’t think I’d be good at it, and I don’t think I’d cherish a child the way you’re supposed to.”

Siobhan looked down at their hands, her eyes filling with tears.

“I think,” Chris continued, squeezing her hands, trying so hard to soften the blow, “that babies should only be born to people who are ready to care for them, and who can love them the way they deserve. Do you agree with that?”

Siobhan nodded. “Yes,” she said softly.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispered, and he meant it. “If this were just…something that were dropped in our lap, like what happened to my parents? Maybe I could wrap my mind around it. But I just don’t think trying is a good idea.”

Siobhan looked up at him and tried to smile. Her face was glazed with tears. Chris tsked softly and brushed them away.

“I understand,” Siobhan said sadly. “Thank you…for trying, I guess. To change your mind.”

Chris pulled her in, kissed the top of her head, and rocked her a little back and forth. “You’re my wife,” he whispered. “I love you. I’ll always try.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Siobhan was different after that conversation.

Where once she was deeply affectionate – the demonstrative one in their relationship – she was now considerably more closed-off. Their comms when he was on the Sagan were shorter, and when he was home in Marin, they lived more like roommates than a married couple. They talked less, did less, kissed less, and sexed less, and it began to really, _really_ worry Chris.

They didn’t fight. Not once.

“I don’t think this is working the way it’s supposed to,” Siobhan confessed to him one night as they lay in bed, facing opposite walls.

Chris was silent for a moment. “Is this about having a baby?”

“It’s about having a baby,” Siobhan said. “It’s about you never being home. It’s about me missing my family. I think it’s a wee bit about us not knowing how to be married.”

Chris swallowed hard. “I still love you, Siobhan.”

Siobhan shifted slightly in bed. “I still love you, Chris,” she said slowly, “but I don’t think I love you enough.”

It was, in retrospect, one of the most painful things Chris had ever had anyone say to him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris and Siobhan both set their house keys on the kitchen counter, then stared at them for a moment.

“I’m gonna miss this house,” Siobhan finally said, her voice very soft but echoing in the empty room. “Decorating it was fun. Maybe that’s what I should go to school for.”

Chris smiled at her. “You wanna go back to school?”

Siobhan grinned, even though her eyes were tired. “I’m only twenty-two,” she said. “Plenty of life left to live.”

“You gonna go back to Shannon?” Chris asked.

Siobhan’s grin widened. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I miss home.”

Chris nodded sadly. “Yeah. I do too.”

“When will you go back up?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Chris answered. “I’m looking at a few positions more in line with my experience, but Starfleet hasn’t told me where I’m going yet.”

Siobhan reached up and rested a hand on Chris’ cheek. “Whatever it is, you’re going to be great at it.”

Chris’ heart cracked a little more, and he opened his arms up, hugging Siobhan tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Siobhan shook her head against his. “I’m not,” she said. “You gave me everything you could. I’m grateful for you, Chris.” She tightened her hold on him just a little. “So, so grateful.”

They parted, then held hands and looked at one another. Chris couldn’t speak for his ex-wife, but he certainly felt every drop of the pain of separation squeezing its way out of his heart.

“Goodbye, Chris,” Siobhan said softly. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door.

“Bye, Siobhan,” Chris whispered to the closed door.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris asked for a transfer before the ink on his divorce papers was dry. Tryczynski had been talking to him anyway about transferring to a position more congruent with his academic degree and aptitude, and Chris hardly relished the idea of being stuck shipboard with his now-former brother-in-law.

Phil, bless his heart, also had a major itch to get back into the black, now that his fellowship was done. He had applied for – and accepted – a position on the USS Vaughan. He’d be second-in-command of their medbay, under a Dr. Levin. Chris privately laughed at the idea of Phil playing second fiddle to _anyone._

The Vaughan, as it turned out, was also in the market for a new chief tactical/second officer. A job Chris could _absolutely_ do.

After a few months of crashing on Phil’s couch, they headed for the shuttlebay, and then for the Vaughan.

The Vaughan was captained by Natalie Nguyen, a woman in her late forties with short and spiky hair who had a list of commendations and accolades from here to Vulcan and back. She may have been at least a foot shorter than Chris or Phil, but she also gave the not insignificant impression that she could _absolutely_ kick your ass.

On the grand tour of the ship, Captain Nguyen also introduced them to Lieutenant Laura Zoss, the chief conn officer, who was beautiful in a _holy shit breathtaking_ kind of way.

“Gentlemen,” Zoss greeted smoothly. “Welcome aboard.”

Phil made a noise that Chris could only guess bore a resemblance to the last sound a blue whale makes before it dies. Chris covertly banged his ankle against some deck plating to redirect his red blood cells.

“Lieutenant,” Chris managed to croak, sounding distressingly like a thirteen-year-old boy.

Zoss’ eyes danced with amusement before she turned back to her station.

The last stop on the ship’s tour was crew quarters, and because the Vaughan’s personnel officer _clearly_ didn’t know what kind of shenanigans Chris and Phil might get up to in such close proximity, they’d been assigned quarters right next door to one another, with a shared bathroom. Deeply convenient for invading each others’ spaces, as they did that night, for dinner, in Chris’ quarters.

_“Zoss,”_ Phil said dreamily as soon as Chris opened the door.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Good evening to you too, Phil. Why yes, it _is_ nice to see you. My first day onboard was fine. How was yours?”

Phil waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. _Zoss,_ Chris.”

Chris flopped into his chair a little more dramatically than the moment called for. “Yes, Phil, Lieutenant Zoss is good looking,” he sighed, twirling his pasta. “Also competent. Sharp. What’s her first name again? Lisa? Lena?”

“She’s _stunning,”_ Phil commented.

_“Laura,_ that’s it,” Chris said, mostly to himself.

“Are you listening to me, Christopher?”

“I might, if you stop drooling on my table and actually talk.”

Phil groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Pretty. Smart. Competent. That’s the Chris Pike Deadly Trifecta. How am I the only one drooling over her?”

“Phil, I’ve been divorced for _three months.”_

“Yes, _divorced,_ as in _it’s perfectly acceptable to date someone new.”_

“Oh no,” Chris sighed, dropping his fork and cradling his forehead in his palm. “Please tell me you’re not trying to fix me up already.”

“Why not?” Phil said indignantly. “I saw you _‘accidentally’_ bang your ankle when she smiled. I know exactly what the hell you were trying to do there.”

Chris shook his head. “I’m…no. I’m just not ready.” He held up his hand, forestalling Phil’s interjection. “I know, I know, been a while, back in the saddle, all that crap. Just…too much change in too short a space of time. Not yet.”

Phil held up his hands meekly. “Okay,” he demurred, “okay, you win.”

An idea began forming at the base of Chris’ brain, slowly migrating upward. He narrowed his eyes across the table at Phil, who was concentrating _very_ hard on his plate.

“If you think Zoss is so hot,” Chris began slowly, “why don’t _you_ make a play for her?”

“Me?” Phil looked up with some surprise at Chris, then shook his head. “Nah.”

“After all the salivating you were just doing over her?! You’re just gonna say _‘nah’?!”_

Phil nodded. “Yep.”

“Well shit, at least I had a _reason,”_ Chris said indignantly, before crinkling his brow in mild interest. “Are…are you in some kind of ‘dick-exclusive’ mood at the moment or something?”

Phil chewed his asparagus serenely. “Okay, do we have to go over _again_ how bisexuality does and does not work? Because I’m pretty sure we had that conversation, like, ten years ago.”

“I was kidding, you defensive harpy.”

“Shrew,” Phil shot back affectionately.

“Well, think about it, at least,” Chris said, spearing a cherry tomato. “Just because my love life is lying in tatters around me doesn’t mean yours has to be. You and Laura would be cute together.”

Phil went quiet for a moment. Chris thought he might be looking at him, but when he looked up, Phil’s eyes had gone back to his plate. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, okay, I’ll think about it.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil did not think about it.

Chris did.

Chris had known Phil for more than a decade now, and in all that time, Phil had had plenty of short-term flings with men and women alike, but nothing that lasted as long as even Chris’ shortest relationships. And while it never seemed to bother Phil – he seemed satisfied enough with what he called his partners “in the meantime,” and left on good terms with every one of them – it did sort of make Chris wonder: if those were partners “in the meantime,” wouldn’t that imply the existence of a… _not just “in the meantime”_ partner? There had to be. Phil was kind, funny, smart, attractive, passionate; perfectly deserving of a reliable, loving partner to come home to at the end of the day.

All Chris wanted was for his best friend to be happy. To that end, he did something very, very stupid.

He tried to set Phil and Laura up.

Chris found out, through some very carefully worded questions, some overheard ship’s gossip, and a tiny bit of outright interrogation, that Laura was, indeed, single, and that men were, indeed, at least somewhere on her repertoire. Then, at lunch one day, he struck.

He commed Phil to meet him in the mess hall, luring him with mentions of his favorite meal, because he was just evil like that. Laura was already there, sipping tea and observing the goings-on around her.

_Showtime._

“May I join you?” Chris said in his flirtatious, rumbly, _aren’t-I-adorable_ voice.

Laura made to stand in deference to his higher rank, but he smiled and waved her off.

“Please,” Laura finally said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

Chris sat. “You and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk off the bridge since I came aboard.”

Laura smiled. “I suppose we haven’t. You caught me in a little bit of a rare moment; I tend to eat alone in my quarters.”

Chris frowned. “Problems with people onboard?”

“Not at all,” Laura replied. “Just…a bit of an introvert, I guess. I do better one-on-one.”

Chris smiled softly. “Sounds like we’re kindred spirits. My best friend Phil – ”

“Thought you said it was vegetarian lasagna day,” Phil’s grumpy voice interrupted from behind Chris. Chris turned; Phil was giving the stink eye to the grilled cheese on his plate.

“Ah, damn, did I say that? Sorry, Phil, I must’ve gotten my days mixed up.” Chris stood, patting Phil on the shoulder and giving him a significant look. “Phil, you remember meeting Laura Zoss, right?”

Phil looked rather like he’d swallowed a goldfish. He blinked a few times. “Of course. Hello, Lieutenant Zoss.”

Laura smiled. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Boyce. Please, call me Laura.”

Phil smiled stiltedly. “Laura.”

There was a moment of silence so horrifyingly awkward and _bizarre_ that it curdled like sour milk in Chris’ gut. “Well,” he said, realizing all in a rush and far too late that _oh god I’m horrible at this,_ “I’m just gonna…um…” he pointed vaguely to the chow line, “get some food. You two, ah, get acquainted.”

Phil shot Chris a look universally recognizable as _I will kill you for this._ Chris nearly tripped over his own feet darting away from them.

Laura and Phil smiled at one another fondly, if mildly uncomfortably, over the table, Phil playing with his napkin.

Laura nodded in the direction of Chris’ back. “He seems like a really good man, Chris does.”

Phil nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, he is.”

“You two have known each other for a long time,” Laura continued. “You must be really close.”

Phil nodded again. “Yes, we are.”

Laura narrowed her eyes, just the tiniest bit, her smile never wavering. “You’re out of your mind in love with him, aren’t you?”

Phil’s eyes flitted down and his voice lowered. “Yes, I am.”

Laura nodded shrewdly as Phil buried his head in his hands.


	9. Chapter 9

It happened so fast.

They’d been surveying a planet with a friendly delegation. A rogue agent pulled a random act of violence, opening fire on the away team. As Chris crouched in front of a T’Rai ambassador, phaser drawn, he watched Eddie Salazar take one in the chest. He was dead before he hit the pavement.

Chris had been in Starfleet for a long time. He knew people died in this work. He’d seen it happen. Hell, he’d written several hundred pages on the Kelvin. He wasn’t naïve about it. But this was the first time he’d ever lost someone under his direct command.

Eddie was a security lieutenant. Chris was chief tactical officer. Eddie was Chris’ responsibility. And Eddie was dead.

It was odd, Chris thought, holding two seemingly disparate ideas in his head and wholeheartedly believing both of them. On the one hand, Eddie was a Starfleet officer, conditioned just as Chris had been to know that injury or death in the line of duty was a possibility and accepting of that risk. Chris hadn’t pulled the trigger; he’d been doing his job, protecting an innocent, just like Eddie had been. Chris had fulfilled his obligation, even if the outcome was shitty.

On the other hand, Eddie was one of _his._ He reported directly to Chris. Chris gave him orders. Chris told him where to stand that day, how to position his body to shield the delegation. Chris put him in the position to die.

He stared at the personnel file on his PADD for a long, long time.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Nguyen looked tired when Chris walked into her ready room.

“You look like shit, Pike,” she said bluntly.

Chris just nodded in acknowledgement, then got to the point. “Captain, respectfully, I’d like to request that I be the one to contact Ensign Salazar’s next of kin with the news of his death.”

Nguyen looked at him for a moment, then tilted her head. “I can do that, Chris.”

“I know you can, ma’am,” Chris replied, “but I want to. I _need_ to.” Chris swallowed thickly. “It’s important to me.”

Nguyen looked at him carefully. “You’re not beating yourself up over this, are you?”

Chris didn’t answer her.

“Because you shouldn’t,” she continued. “Salazar’s death was a waste. I’m pissed, and I’m sad, and I wish it hadn’t happened. It’s awful. But Chris, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I understand that,” Chris said softly. “But…but Eddie was one of mine.”

A little smile curled Nguyen’s lips. “Okay. Permission granted. Write the letter. I don’t know how good Ti’Vrola’s Spanish is, but mine’s fair, if you need a hand.”

Chris nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

He spent his entire day off working on the letter, talking about Eddie’s bravery, his humor, his outspoken nature, his magnetic personality. He mentioned how much Eddie always talked about his nieces and nephews, that his family was obviously the light of his life, that they’d return his Saint Christopher medal to the family just as soon as they could get within transporter range of Earth. He said he was sorry, that he wished he could’ve done more to protect his ensign.

He sent it, then went slightly catatonic, so much so that he didn’t hear Phil coming in through their shared bathroom door.

Phil sat heavily on the couch next to Chris, looking at him with gentle eyes. “You okay?”

Chris shook his head slowly.

Phil’s hand landed in the middle of Chris’ back. “Chris, I know how hard this is. I do. But you’ve got to find a way to grieve so you can let it go.”

Chris looked down at his hands, at the darkened PADD that he’d composed the letter on. “Did you know he’d had the same girlfriend since he was thirteen?” he said quietly. “They were gonna get married after his tour of duty here was up. He had four siblings, twelve nieces and nephews. All four of his grandparents are still alive, plus two of his great-grandparents. I know parents aren’t supposed to bury their children, but who the hell thinks it even has to be _said_ that great-grandparents shouldn’t have to bury their great-grandchildren?”

Phil just stayed quiet, letting Chris talk. Chris buried his face in his hands. His throat was getting tight with tears, an incredibly rare occurrence. “What could I have done to make this different?”

“Nothing,” Phil answered gently. “Nothing, Chris. You did everything right. Sometimes that’s how this works. Sometimes you do everything right and you still lose. It’s more than unfair; it’s the shittiest part about being alive. It does _not_ mean that you failed him.”

Chris’ eyes were burning. “I can’t take it.”

Phil’s arm curled around his shoulder. “Then let some of it go.”

Two tears leaked out of Chris’ eyes, then a few more, then a quiet, steady waterfall. Phil just sat next to him, arm around his best friend’s shoulder, letting him make his grief manifest.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris woke up and immediately regretted the decision.

His eyes were gummed shut, his mouth tasted _vile,_ and his head… _oh wow, I am_ beyond _hungover._

He also…didn’t know where he was. Still on the Vaughan, for sure; these were quarters on the ship…and hey, there was his command gold tunic, with brand new double-thick full commander’s stripes on the sleeves, _oh right, I got promoted._ But these weren’t his sheets, and he didn’t have a window there, and Grandpa’s telescope was nowhere to be seen, which meant these weren’t his quarters.

They weren’t Phil’s quarters, either, which whittled the list of quarters Chris would recognize right down to zero.

About three increasingly puzzling minutes passed before Chris realized that he was naked.

It took about another, oh, ninety seconds to realize that there was somebody else in this bed with him.

About ten more seconds to remember who that was.

“Chris?” Laura’s disconcerted voice came from behind him.

So Chris did the only thing that a perfectly-mature, thirty-one-year-old Starfleet commander and all-around badass could do when one realizes he’s slept with a coworker while horribly drunk.

He jumped out of bed and _shrieked like a teakettle._

Laura groaned terrifically, sat up, and buried her face in her hands, thinking too late to yank the gray duvet up over her breasts.

Chris thought he might throw up. _“Fuck,_ we didn’t, please tell me we didn’t,” he begged. He already knew they did, but he would grasp at any straw with which he was presented at that moment.

“Oh, no, we _definitely_ did,” Laura groaned into her hands, shifting her hips uncomfortably under the covers. “A couple of times, in fact.” She looked up, glaring. “You kept screaming my goddamn _name,_ Chris,” she hissed.

The evening was piecing itself together in his mind. Lots of skin. Wiggling hips. _Laura!_ Repeatedly. And at considerable volume.

Chris’ throat was sore, and now he knew why.

“This entire deck heard you,” Laura declared accusingly. “I’m pretty sure the fucking _Klingons_ heard you. Why’d you do that, huh?” Her voice dropped to something resembling a whine.

 _“How am I supposed to know?!”_ Chris squeaked nonsensically. “You were doing that…thing…with your…” He gestured aimlessly with his hand to Laura’s body in general, before completely giving up on trying to explain himself. “Oh, Christ, do you have a hypo? I’m dying over here.”

Laura wrapped the duvet around her, punched the code into her replicator, and produced two analgesic hypos, one of which she unceremoniously tossed to Chris. “Both of us are nearly late,” she said, massaging the spot where she injected herself. “I realize I can’t give you orders, but I _strongly suggest_ that we both get dressed, go to the bridge, and never speak of this incident again. Agreed?”

“I…yes,” Chris said promptly. “Yes. Agreed. Let’s.”

Chris was subject to a not-insignificant number of snickers from passing crewmen as he walked down to the bridge. It made him _very, very badly_ want to use his newfound commander rank to assign them all to scrub the warp manifolds for the next month. Or maybe to polish the transporter pads with a toothbrush. Drop the lot of them off on Garryon Kappa I and make them mine dilithium with their bare hands.

He got through his entire torturous shift by thinking of increasingly inventive ways to torment the sniggering little twits.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Well, well, well.”

Chris winced and winced _hard._ Why had he thought he could get away with coming to the mess hall for lunch? Why? Was he still drunk and not thinking properly?

“Phil…” he grit out, turning.

The look on Phil’s face was a combination of deeply amused and insufferably smug. It made Chris wish he’d gotten a salad today, so he’d have a fork to stick in his best friend’s eye.

“My, my, my, my, _my,_ Commander Pike,” Phil said, coming around and sitting in front of Chris, arms folded, posture unbelievably self-assured, and…forget the fork, Chris could kill him bare-handed, couldn’t he?

He heaved an enormous sigh. “All right, get it out of your system.”

Phil smirked. “You slept with Laura.”

“Why am I friends with you?”

“Because you love me,” Phil answered without skipping a beat. “I’d ask you how it was, but I saw exactly how drunk you got at your promotion ceremony. You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

“I despise you,” Chris muttered, spooning the last of his pudding into his mouth with rather more venom than the moment called for.

“Lies,” Phil said smoothly, sobering a little. “Question: Is this…” he waved his hand in the air, “a _thing_ now, you and Laura?” Chris banged his head into the table. “Or was this more a ‘hey, you’re really hot and I’m _spectacularly_ sloshed’ kinda thing?”

Chris held two fingers up at Phil without picking his head up off the table. “Second one.”

“Okay. Thought so, but figured I’d check.” Phil picked up Chris’ pudding cup and ran his finger around the inside of it, collecting what remained and sucking it off.

Chris watched him and wanted to die a little bit.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days later, Captain Nguyen called her “Laura” in a briefing. Under ordinary circumstances, that wouldn’t have provoked any reaction; under the circumstance of most of those present having heard Laura’s name echoing up and down the corridors of Deck Ten, well…

Ensign See, on Chris’ left, pressed his lips together suspiciously hard. Ti’Vrola, right next to Laura, suddenly became intensely interested in the conference table. Somebody snorted; Chris thought it was Lieutenant Commander Singh, who might well have been biting directly into the flesh of her left hand.

Chris made reluctant eye contact with Laura across the table. Her exasperated eyes turned quickly heavenward in an _I don’t have time for this shit_ gesture, and she seemed to be silently counting to ten so as not to strangle her colleagues.

Phil kicked him under the table. Chris kicked back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When it came time for Chris to assign away teams to survey the damage to Epsilon Phi III, he split them into a prime recovery group and a relief squad.

“See, Phil, and…um…” Chris pointed vaguely, turning violently pink, unable to make his tongue say the name _Laura._ “Number one,” he said, giving up and going with the group name instead. He sighed. _Smooth._ “Group two, me, Ti’Vrola, and Parker.”

Chris deflated a little in his chair at the snickers that surrounded the table. Nguyen dismissed the senior staff, and Laura walked around the table, leaning back on it next to where Chris sat. He looked up at her warily; she was smirking.

“Is Number One my new name?”

Chris covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, muffled.

Laura shrugged. “Actually, I like it.”

Chris looked up at her. She smirked, had the gall to _wink_ at him, and then left the briefing room.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Chris? Chris, can you hear me? C’mon, Chrissy; open your eyes for me…”

Chris blearily opened his eyes, greeted by near-total darkness and a _nightmare_ of a headache.

“Ow,” he managed to croak.

“That’s more like it, pal.” _Phil._ Somewhere in the general vicinity of his left.

Chris swallowed a mouthful of nothing, then looked around. “Where are we?”

Phil sighed, wiping his brow; Chris realized that the only light came from the little penlight Phil kept in his medkit. “We,” he said, “are up shit creek.”

Through the metallic whine of his headache, Chris began to remember. Zawjar had commed the Vaughan, claiming a need for medical supplies. They were warp capable, but technologically a few decades behind the Federation, particularly with regard to weapons; they posed little threat, and there was humanitarian need. Since they wanted such a small yield of supplies, Captain Nguyen decided to just send Phil down as a representative of medical, with Chris on security detail.

Much to their own detriment, because as it turned out, the Zawjara were big fat liars. They didn’t just want a couple tricorders and some medicine; they wanted dilithium, and they wanted a _lot_ of it, and they were willing to take hostages in order to get it.

Chris remembered phaser fire and being dragged away by his shirt collar, but that was about it.

“Why’s my head hurt?” he asked Phil weakly.

“You’re concussed,” he answered. “You took a pretty good blow to the back of the head when they were dragging us in here.”

Chris felt his eyes drifting closed. “That explains it…why I’m so sleepy.”

Phil flicked him in the forehead. “Don’t you fucking _dare,_ Christopher. You _must_ stay awake.”

Chris winced. “No flicking the concussed, Philip.”

Phil consulted his tricorder. “Swelling’s getting worse,” he groaned. “I can’t give you any anti-inflammatories. You’re not bleeding into your brain yet, but if you start to, you’re in deep shit.” He prepped a hypo, then pressed it to Chris’ neck.

“Whazzat?” Chris asked.

“Good old fashioned acetaminophen,” Phil responded. “All I can do right now. That and keep you awake.”

“Mmm. Donwanna.”

Phil pinched the back of Chris’ hand.

 _“Ow._ Bitch.”

“I don’t care what you _want._ You’re staying awake. No matter what.”

Chris groaned.

“Tell me something,” Phil demanded. “Something. Anything. Something I don’t know about you.”

“You know everything about me,” Chris moaned.

Phil snorted. “Right. No, seriously.” He visibly racked his brain, searching for a topic of conversation. “What’s your least favorite food? The mess of stuff you’re allergic to doesn’t count.”

“Mmmph.”

_“Christopher, answer me.”_

Chris blinked. “Beets.”

“Okay. Why beets?”

Chris thought back. It hurt, in more ways than one. “Mom,” he said softly. “Decided the whole family was going on a cleanse once. I was about four. Beet smoothies.”

“Gross.”

“Mmhmm. Puked a couple days into it. Looked like blood. I freaked out. So did Mom.”

“I bet. What’d she do?”

Chris’ eyes were fluttering closed. “Hospital,” he said, each successive syllable kind of fading away into the ether.

“Nope. C’mon, Chris. What else…um…hell, I dunno…what was Laura like in bed?”

“Drunk,” Chris answered. “Don’t ‘member. Just…her hips.”

“What about her hips?” Phil demanded.

Chris didn’t answer. His head lolled to the side.

 _“CHRIS,”_ Phil shouted. Chris jumped awake. “Look, do you want me to give you a blowjob to keep you awake? Because you know I’ll do it.”

Chris’ bruised and battered brain didn’t know how to process that statement. Phil’s unbruised and unbattered brain apparently didn’t either, because he muttered, “Jesus, I hope you don’t remember that I said that.” When Chris started to doze again, Phil rubbed his sternum hard with his knuckles. “Goddammit, Christopher, you are _not_ dying on your best friend’s birthday; that would be _horribly_ bad manners.”

There was a pause while Chris’ eyes flitted in and out of making sense of their environment. Then, his voice came again, very softly, very slowly.

“Happy birthday to you,” he began, slightly off-key, a little slurred. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Philip…”

Phil grabbed him around the shoulders and they began singing together. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Philip, happy birthday to you.” Over and over again.

Until the little roof of their hostage hidey-hole was unceremoniously ripped off by an extremely pissed off looking Captain Nguyen.

“LaPresta, can you get a lock now?”

Chris looked up at Phil, and the two of them vanished in a shimmering transporter beam.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Commander Pike?” Chris turned to Ensign Ti’Vrola, the chief communications officer. “We’ve just received a priority comm for you from Earth. It’s marked personal, for your eyes only. Not Starfleet.”

Chris turned to Captain Nguyen; it was five minutes to the end of shift anyway, so he put the question in his eyes. She nodded him away.

“Thanks, Ensign. Patch it to my quarters, would you?” Chris left the bridge, wondering en route who he knew on Earth that could possibly be sending him a personal priority comm.

When he got into his quarters, toed off his boots, and powered up his terminal, he got his answer in a dizzying hurry.

_Brookside Residential Hospital, Bakersfield, California_

_Subject: Next of Kin Notification_

Chris became suddenly and inexplicably very aware of his skin. He felt the skin of his face as it was frozen into place. He felt his fingertips on the trackpad of his terminal. He felt where his buttocks met his seat, where his feet met the floor. He felt his skin tingling, prickling, burning, the currents of air from the environmental controls gently flowing over his face like they were trying to soothe him (as if that was going to happen), his pulse thudding hard and fast in his neck.

He felt like he was going to vomit at any moment.

Somehow, he gathered up what remaining wherewithal he had in him to open the form letter.

_Dear Mr. PIKE,_

_This is to inform you that your kin at our facility, EMILY C. BECKETT, died on TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2245 (2245.287) at approximately 0100 HOURS, aged 54 YEARS. The cause of death was CARCINOMA, OVARIAN._

_In accordance with EMILY’s stated wishes, her remains have been cremated. Should you wish to retrieve the remains, please contact the administration office at this frequency._

_Please accept the condolences of the entire Brookside Residential Hospital staff on your loss._

Chris just sat there and stared unseeing at the screen, completely devoid of any idea what he was supposed to do.

 _What is the protocol here?_ he wondered. _How am I supposed to feel right now?_

_Sad? Angry? Relieved?_

Most people, he surmised, would cry upon learning of their mother’s death. But then, Chris hadn’t cried when he last saw his mother thirty years ago. He hadn’t cried when he learned he probably never would again.

Chris stood up and paced a couple of times. _Pragmatism. What needs to be done? Do something. Do anything. Don’t sit. Don’t dwell. Focus. Get out._

Chris strode out of his quarters without knowing where he was going.

He wound up, for some reason, in the navigational array, where he silently got to work, upgrading sensors that didn’t need upgrades, refining the perfectly fine communication between the starboard nacelle and the control panel at the helm, recalculating and reentering the perfectly computed geometry of the ionic modulation couplings. He didn’t think; he just _did,_ and when he ran out of stuff to do, he invented more.

He stood there for hours before he looked around at the panels in the deserted room and asked himself, _what the fuck am I doing?_

“Boyce to Pike.”

The sound of another voice made Chris jump. He looked at the comm panel in the wall, a little confused, like it was alien technology, before pressing the talk button. “Pike.” His voice was hoarse with disuse.

“What the hell are you doing, Christopher? The computer says you’ve been on duty for sixteen hours.”

“It does?” Chris checked the chronometer. _Oh._

“Don’t make me find you and sedate your ass,” Phil threatened.

“Sorry,” Chris said dully. “Guess I just got distracted.”

Phil’s tone changed markedly, softening. “Chris? You okay?”

Chris swallowed, because he could never convincingly lie to his best friend. “I’m on my way to bed now, Phil. Pike out.”

“But – ”

Phil’s sound of protest was cut off as Chris closed the comm line with a _click._ He got all the way back to his quarters when he saw his boots in the corner. He looked down – _huh._ Stocking feet.

He took off his uniform and got in bed, all without closing his eyes.

Unbeknownst to Chris, Phil Boyce was three decks below him, hacking into the comm system.

(Although – does it really count as _hacking_ if one’s passcode is so easily guessed?)

Equally unbeknownst to Chris, a visit was paid to Captain Nguyen minutes thereafter, requesting (demanding) bereavement leave for one member of the senior staff and personal leave for the other, both to commence immediately.

Chris didn’t hear his door chime, so when Phil suddenly appeared in his quarters, standing over him with a bag over one shoulder and saying his name, he was mildly startled.

“How’d you get in here?” Chris asked.

“Medical override,” Phil replied, moving to Chris’ closet and yanking down a duffel from a high shelf. “C’mon. Get dressed.”

Lacking the mental capital to ask why, Chris did as he was told. Phil flitted around Chris’ quarters like he belonged there, taking his civvies from his bureau drawers and his toiletries from the bathroom like they were his own and packing them into Chris’ bag.

Phil looked up at Chris once he’d dressed. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?” Chris finally asked.

“Well, first we’re going to the shuttlebay,” Phil answered, “and then we’re going to Mojave.”

Chris looked at Phil and blinked. “But…what…”

Phil wrapped a steadying arm around Chris and kept walking down the hall. “C’mon. Either we launch in ten or we’ve gotta wait two hours for maintenance to do their thing.”

“How’d you find out?” Chris finally managed.

Phil smiled slightly and shook his head as they entered the shuttle bay, nodding at the officer on duty at the door. “I can deliver a baby, correct a deviated fetal spinal column, and repair a shredded pericardium all before lunch; you think I can’t hack into my best friend’s message system? Now,” Phil asked, ushering them into the shuttle, “you with it enough to fly, or do you want me to?”

“Phil, why are you doing this?” Chris blurted.

“Because you need me to,” Phil answered immediately, gaze steady as a rock. “You or me?”

Chris looked at the control panel. “Me.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days later, Chris held what was left of his mother in a box in his lap as Phil drove them down streets Chris hadn’t been down since he was seventeen. He barely even looked up, unable to take his eyes off the duranium box.

Phil stayed quiet and let Chris ruminate, because he was truly the best friend Chris could ever have asked for.

The road got less and less urban, more and more desolate, less like a city and more like the desert it actually was. Phil parked at the base of a low hill; they got out and climbed their way to the summit. It wasn’t at all high, but it was just enough to get a pretty lovely view of the valley, complete with cacti and bramble and the occasional coyote scurrying across. The sun was setting and bathing the sky in pinks and yellows.

It was beautiful, though Chris had trouble seeing it at all.

Phil stood next to Chris but said nothing, just sticking his hands in his pockets and looking out at the scenery as Chris worried the latch on the box he held. For a long few moments, they were silent.

“Do you…” Chris began hoarsely, then swallowed and tried again. “Do you think she loved me?” Phil looked up at Chris, his lips poised to answer, but Chris continued before he could speak. “I was an accident. She never planned on me. And then I was _there,_ and once I was, she just got worse and worse, until…” He trailed off, unable to continue.

“Until she knew leaving was the most loving choice she could make,” Phil finished gently. “She loved you, Chris. She loved you so much that she knew she had to let you go.”

Chris closed his eyes and pursed his lips, nodding slightly. Then he took a deep breath, flicked the latch on the box, and tilted it into the breeze, watching his mother’s ashes float away and paint the desert.

“Bye, Mom,” he whispered, feeling a tear slip down his cheek.

Phil’s hand landed gently on Chris’ shoulder, and the gesture broke the dam. Chris curled into Phil, fisting his hands in his tee shirt, and for the first time in his life, sobbed for the loss of his mother.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a dull day on the Vaughan. They were sailing through comparatively dead space on their way to a simple trading mission, and Chris was bored out of his skull.

He wasn’t the only one. Number One was reading a book on her PADD at the helm. Ti’Vrola was unabashedly browsing the subspace gossip rags. Ensign See at navigation and Lieutenant Parker at ops were flirting in what they thought was a covert manner. (It was not.)

So when Captain Nguyen walked onto the bridge, everyone had to hustle a little to snap to attention. She didn’t seem to notice.

“We’ve received new orders. All hands in the sector have been ordered to divert to Tarsus IV immediately for a humanitarian emergency. All other orders have been suspended. Mr. See, plot the straightest shot of a course between here and the Tarsus system that you can manage. Ti’Vrola, get engineering on the comm and tell Tharoor I want the highest warp we can get for as long as we can get it and that I approve whatever overtime she needs to dole out to make that happen. Mr. Pike, have Dr. Boyce brief the medical staff and start assigning away teams. I’m going to warn all of you now that I’ve been told we’re going to be beaming into a nightmare the likes of which we have never seen before. Brief your teams appropriately.”

The bridge crew of the Vaughan took a second to blink at that last part.

Captain Nguyen was having none of it. “What are you all sitting around for?” she snapped.

So they got to work.

They arrived at the Tarsus system three hours later, and if anything, “a nightmare the likes of which we have never seen before” was a gross underestimation. 

It was _char._

Fields lay with wilted and weeping crops at best, desolate and barren at worst.

The ground was stained with the rusty remnants of blood and scorch.

Where once there lay government buildings, there now lay piles of ash, still smoldering slightly.

Bodies. On bodies. On bodies.

Some burned, some with bullet wounds, a handful with what looked like stab wounds.

All ranging from _thin_ to _emaciated._

The Vaughan’s away team took a moment after beaming down to simply stare in horror around them. Ensign See crouched and vomited.

Chris looked at Phil, who looked about ready to crack his tricorder in two with fury.

“All right,” he said grimly. “All right. Fan out. Get on the comm with signs of life. Keep your phasers on stun. Go.”

They searched until the sun began to set. Chris’ comm stayed eerily silent.

_Nobody’s finding survivors._

Defeated, Chris took a moment and sat on a rock at the mouth of a cave, putting his head in his hands and trying to breathe through the trauma that surrounded him.

In the years that followed, whenever Chris looked back on this day, he would not be able to pinpoint what it was that made him turn around at that moment. He couldn’t recall hearing a little noise or seeing a shadow move – he would only be able to say, completely unscientifically, that he felt a presence behind him.

When he turned, the light was so low that it was hard to see anything but a silhouette, but there was… _what the hell?_

A child. Twelve, maybe thirteen?

With a phaser.

Poised to take Chris out in a single shot, and Chris was betting it wasn’t set to stun.

“Stay the fuck away from my kids,” the kid – the _boy_ – growled, in a voice far too old for the age Chris had pegged him.

“My name is Christopher Pike,” Chris said steadily, putting his hands up. “Commander Pike, of the Federation Starship Vaughan. I’m here to help. I won’t hurt you.”

The boy said nothing, but Chris heard the whine of an automatic phaser initiation. He tried to swallow his heart back as it landed in his throat.

“What’s your name?” he asked neutrally.

Silence.

“You mentioned kids. How many do you have?”

“You _stay away from them,”_ the boy repeated.

“Okay,” Chris nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay away from them. Just tell me: does anybody need help?” He swallowed. “Food, medicine, anything?” Chris watched as the dying light caught the lip of the phaser. The kid was shaking, and his hand was lowering slightly. “I have some rations in my pack. Can I reach in and get them for you?”

There were a few beats where nothing happened – Chris and the boy just stood there, one in the cave and one out, the boy holding Chris at phaserpoint. Then, incredibly slowly, the boy lowered the phaser.

Chris reached into his pack quickly and pulled out a ration bar. He held it up. “It’s sealed,” he said, unprompted, knowing the boy would probably want some kind of reassurance that it hadn’t been tampered with. He tossed it to the boy, keeping a safe distance; it landed on the dirt softly. “It’s yours,” Chris said gently. “Take it.”

The boy suddenly scrambled for the ration bar, dropping the phaser with a low _thump._ He ripped the wrapper open; Chris expected him to devour it, but instead, he just broke off a tiny end piece of the bar – maybe about a sixth of the thing – and ate it, carefully cradling the rest to his chest.

“I have more,” Chris said evenly. “Plenty for you and for your kids. If you’ll let us help.” The boy stayed silent; Chris could see his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. “We want to get you off this planet, son. Get you somewhere safe, where you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Chris saw something shiny – reflection from the boy’s eyes, he thought, as they looked toward him.

“Let’s try this again,” Chris said gently. “I’m Chris. Can you come into the light so we can meet properly?”

Very, very slowly, the boy did so. And with every step he took closer to Chris, Chris increasingly wanted to find the party responsible for all of this and kill them all over again.

The boy was rail thin, with sunken cheeks and a collarbone much too visible. His eyes were downcast and his hands were shaking. He was filthy. His hair was so oily and matted that Chris couldn’t even identify its color, and he was dotted with a wide array of scrapes and bruises.

Chris tried to calm himself, reminding himself that he was here to help this kid, that rage would not make anything easier on either of them.

Then the boy looked up and made eye contact, and Chris gave up all pretense of trying to control his heart rate.

Because _he knew those eyes._

The impossibly electric blue eyes that had made his heart hitch in an Iowa farmhouse thirteen years before.

They couldn’t exist on anybody else in the galaxy. They just couldn’t.

_Oh god, no._

Chris took a deep, unsteady breath, trying to control his shock reaction, and said, “What’s your name, son?” in a hoarse voice.

“JT,” the boy volunteered.

_James Tiberius. No, no, no…_

“How many kids are with you, JT?” Chris asked.

“Five,” JT – _Jim_ – whispered. His eyes slipped downward.

Chris tasted bile. He swallowed hard. “Would you let me see them?”

Jim looked back up at him, through eyes that were _way_ too hard, and wordlessly led him into the cave.

It was a long way down, and pitch dark, but Jim seemed to know it like the back of his hand, so Chris simply followed him instead of spooking the kid with his wrist torch. 

Jim stopped at a wide dead end in the cave, which was better illuminated, though Chris couldn’t identify a light source. There were quiet voices, little movements from the ground. One little redheaded boy came right up to Jim and, then, on seeing Chris, retreated.

“JT, who…” the little boy started to ask quietly.

Jim looked back at Chris, then at the group. “His name’s Chris. I think we can trust him.”

Chris tried to smile comfortingly, but forgot how halfway through. Jesus, these kids were in bad shape; one had an obviously broken leg, another a horrific facial injury that might’ve been from acid. All of them were strikingly thin and obviously malnourished. It turned Chris’ stomach.

“I’m with Starfleet,” Chris finally said. “We know you’re hurting, and we know you’re hungry. We’re here to get you off the planet, if you’ll let us.”

A girl tugged on Jim’s sleeve and whispered something into his ear. He nodded.

“Look,” Chris continued, “you all need to see a doctor, and you all need some food. Would you let us beam you up to my ship?”

“’m scared of doctors,” a small voice said. It was the little girl who’d been whispering to Jim. Chris tried to smile at her.

“One of our doctors is my best friend. His name’s Phil. I promise, he’s very, very nice. He really wants to help, and he won’t hurt you.”

Jim looked around at the kids, all of whom were looking to _him,_ for guidance, for leadership. Jim shrugged. “What else are we gonna do? Stay here and starve while the planet rots?” There were nods of acknowledgement all around him. Jim turned back to face Chris. His eyes looked so, _so_ tired. “Let’s go.”

Chris and Jim helped the kids up and out of the cave, the girl with the broken leg leaning heavily on Jim as they made their way out – a sort of horrifying parody of a three-legged race. Walking toward the light, instead of away from it, Chris could see things much more clearly, and his eye was caught by a large pile of dirt and stones to the right, at least six feet long, clearly put there with intent.

He squinted. There was a piece of lined paper propped up between two rocks atop the pile, like a signpost, scrawled in ballpoint pen.

 _G. Samuel Kirk 2229-2246,_ it read.

Chris’ stomach lurched furiously in warning and he had to press his cheek to the wall of the cave, letting the cool seep into his skin, to keep from vomiting.

_A little boy, maybe four years old, with light brown hair and wide eyes, sitting on the floor and watching TV._

_This is his grave._

The elder Kirk boy, lost to this planet.

As soon as they reached the mouth of the cave and Chris could see them all in the twilight, he pulled out his comm. “Pike to away team. I have six juvenile survivors with me. All need urgent medical attention. Phil, beam back up and assemble your troops.”

“On it,” Phil’s voice came over the comm.

Chris adjusted the frequency to call the ship. “Pike to Vaughan. Seven to beam up. Have a medical team standing by in the transporter room.”

The tinny voice of the transporter chief came down. “Commander, we can only beam five of you at a time. We’ll have to take this in batches.”

Chris and Jim made eye contact and came to a silent agreement. Chris stepped away from the group.

“You guys go first,” Jim explained to the group, handing the girl with the broken leg off to another child. “I’ll go with Chris.”

“But, JT – ” the little redheaded boy protested.

“Trust me, Kevin,” Jim sighed. “It’ll be okay. Just go. I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”

“But – ”

Jim’s voice turned stern, like a father directing a child. “Kevin. Get off this planet. _Now.”_

Jim stepped back from the group, over to where Chris was, and Chris called up. “Pike to Vaughan. LaPresta, beam the larger concentration of five lifesigns first, followed by myself and the remaining survivor.”

“Aye, sir. Transporting now.”

The five children disappeared in a shimmering wave of light.

As soon as the kids disappeared, Jim went white as a sheet. He turned to Chris, looking around frantically, as if pain, fear, and a diminishing will to go on had all converged on that one moment.

“Chris – ” Jim said, and then he began to hyperventilate.

Chris grabbed Jim by his too-thin biceps to keep him from collapsing and whipped out his comm. “Pike to Vaughan. LaPresta, do you have the five survivors?”

“Present and accounted for, sir. Locking on to you and the remaining survivor.”

“Work fast. He needs Phil, _now.”_

There were probably three seconds of agonizing waiting before then the faint prickle of entering transporter suspension overtook Chris’ body. The moment they rematerialized on the Vaughan, Jim succumbed to panic.

“What’s happening?” he demanded. “ _No,_ what’s happening? Where are the kids? Everything hurts; why does everything hurt? Sam? Sam, I’m scared, _help me! SAM!”_

Jim’s legs completely went out from under him, and he retched, but had nothing in him to throw up. His thin face had gone beet red and was heavily glazed with hysterical tears as he gasped, attempting to catch his breath. Chris let the boy cling to his shirt, picking his much-too-light body up and carrying him off the transporter pad just as Phil rushed in, followed by two nurses with an anti-grav gurney.

“It’s all right, son. We’ve got you; it’s okay. You’re safe.” Chris deposited Jim on the gurney, trying to speak to him as soothingly as he could. Jim didn’t seem to hear him. His words had, at this point, devolved into raw, brutal screams, so intense and horrifying that Chris’ skin crawled with the very timbre of Jim’s voice. Phil turned the boy’s head and quickly depressed a hypo against his neck, and they watched together as Jim’s screams slowly faded to whimpers, and then to nothingness as he fell asleep.

Unable to stop himself, Chris ran a hand through the matted hair on the boy’s head, then looked up at Phil, a question in his eyes.

Phil’s expression was as grim as Chris had ever seen. “Medbay. _Now.”_

Chris followed, because he couldn’t not.

The set of Phil’s mouth as he ran a tricorder over Jim’s still frame became increasingly grave. “Jesus,” he muttered with feeling.

Chris just looked down at Jim, at how extraordinarily fragile he looked. “He – he said everything hurt.”

“He’s not exactly short on things that would hurt right now,” Phil said angrily. He set the tricorder down a little bit harder than was necessary, then turned his hands to Jim, touching him gently, feeling for injury, looking over his frame. “The stress he was under, taking care of the other ones…it probably prevented him from really feeling it until now. Now he’s got help, and his body’s really letting him have it.”

Chris pursed his lips. “What are you gonna do?”

Phil ran a hand through his hair, then started loading a few hypos. “Everything I can.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil kept Jim sedated until they arrived back to Earth five days later, having put him on parenteral nutrition and rehydration protocols, repaired three broken bones, treated him for infections that were dangerously close to sepsis, and healed more cuts and bruises than he could count.

One of the other five, the girl with the broken leg, didn’t make it. Her sepsis was simply too far gone by the time she got back; there was nothing to be done for her. The other four were all still sedated in their own states of injury.

Chris paid a trip to medbay before they beamed the children to ‘Fleet Medical. Jim lay there still and peaceful looking, belying the psychological storm that would no doubt come raring to the forefront when he finally woke up. Chris reached down and squeezed his hand, unable to understand why it was important that he do so, just knowing he _had to._

“Take care of yourself, kid.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If his first introduction to the ready room was any reasonable indicator, Chris’ new assignment was going to be an interesting one. After the Vaughan had completed her mission, he’d decided that perhaps it was time for a change. He’d been with that ship for nearly eight years, and while he liked serving under Captain Nguyen just fine, and he’d managed to forge a rather strong friendship with Number One in spite of The Incident That Would Never Go Mentioned Again, he still itched for a new opportunity. Phil concurred; he wanted new challenges.

The assignment was beautifully serendipitous. The USS Fontana’s XO and CMO, a married couple, had just departed the ship after having a baby together, and so Chris and Phil applied, and were accepted, to replace them. They’d beamed aboard that morning, ready to go out for an eight-month tour under Captain Evan Russell, who had the odd combination of a grandfatherly twinkle, a megawatt smile, and a booming voice that could make a Klingon tremble in his boots.

When Chris made his way into the ready room to meet his new captain, he got a rather… _unexpected_ first impression.

“…sick and tired of the goddamn lackeys in maintenance fucking up my engines so I can’t get the starboard nacelle to fire worth a damn. I have told you about this a hundred times; why is nothing being done about it?”

Captain Russell was smiling indulgently at the woman in front of his desk, making furtive but amused eye contact with Chris as he walked in.

“And I have told _you_ that if you’re having a problem with maintenance, you need to go down to the lower decks and talk to Dos Santos about it.”

“Dos Santos is a fucking _moron,”_ the Lieutenant Commander – judging by her sleeves – spat.

Captain Russell shook his head at her. “Lopez, you’ve gotta learn how to work with Dos Santos, or this is gonna be a long damn eight months.”

“Or you could use those captain stripes on your sleeve and ground her _now,”_ Lopez countered. “Save me the trouble of having to kill her later when I get a gut full of her continued attitude.”

“Well, my best friend’s the new CMO,” Chris broke in, drawing Lopez’s attention. “I’m sure he could tell you how to make it look like an accident.”

Lopez’s eyes were wide, but she didn’t look embarrassed. She looked oddly defiant.

Also very, very attractive, with dark hair in a messy pixie cut and warm brown eyes and faintly tan skin and lips like…

_Uh oh._

“Lieutenant Commander Genevieve Lopez, chief conn officer,” Captain Russell said congenially, “meet Commander Christopher Pike, my new first officer.”

There was a long moment where Chris and Lopez just looked at one another. In his periphery, Chris could vaguely make out Russell’s eyes flicking between them, like he was watching a particularly amusing tennis match.

Finally, Lopez cleared her throat and stuck out her hand. “Commander.”

Chris shook her hand. They both jumped from a spark that had absolutely nothing to do with static electricity.

Another few beats passed before Lopez turned back to Russell. “If you don’t want me to rip out Dos Santos’ ligaments and wear them as a utility belt, tell her and her peons to keep their paws off my engines.”

Russell waved a dismissive hand. Lopez made eye contact with Chris again, then left the room.

“That was unexpected,” Chris deadpanned.

“I’ll say,” Russell returned bemusedly, clearly referencing something other than Lopez’s mouth. “You could cut the sexual tension between the two of you up into little pieces and feed a family of four for a month.”

Chris flushed, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes. Well. Personnel issues are apparently my domain now; do you want me to talk to this…Dos Santos, was it?”

Russell shook his head. “Gen’s feisty as all hell, but she’s not wrong. Dos Santos _is_ an idiot. I’m trying to bring in a replacement now.”

“Oh,” Chris said dumbly.

Russell grinned his megawatt smile. “Welcome to the Fontana, Commander.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Chris was unpacking in his quarters when his door chimed. Expecting it to be Phil, he called, “It’s open.”

Phil did not walk in. Gen Lopez did.

“Oh,” Chris said, shutting his newly christened underwear drawer with some vigor. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry for the intrusion off-hours, Commander,” Lopez said politely.

Chris shrugged. “It’s fine. What’s on your mind?”

Lopez stood at parade rest and pursed her lips. “Sir, I wanted to apologize for the…er, _outburst_ you witnessed earlier today.” She smiled, a little coyly. “I can be a bit passionate about my engines. But I fear I may have demonstrated a certain degree of disrespect that I didn’t intend.”

Chris let his brow furrow a little. “Are you under the impression that I’m…what, going to put you on report?”

Lopez visibly swallowed, and Chris tried not to look at her throat. “Not many new XOs would take kindly to hearing a helm officer yelling at her captain like that.”

Chris let his lips curl into a smile. “Were you right about Dos Santos?”

Lopez nodded shortly. “Yes sir.”

“Chris.”

“What?”

 _“Chris._ I’m not on duty right now and neither are you; you can call me by my name.”

Lopez nodded. “Gen,” she added as an afterthought.

“Gen.” The syllable tasted intriguing. “Sure, you might be advised to show a little more restraint, but I don’t know your relationship with Russell, so as far as I’m concerned, that kind of directive would come from him, not me.” He shrugged. “For my part, I like people who tell the truth. And you did.”

And then, because he just could _not_ help himself: “And I _really_ like people with passion.”

Some kind of flame lit up behind Gen’s eyes, and the air in the room suddenly became very, very thick.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a slow day of flying in a straight line through space, and Chris was bored, so he made himself useful helping Phil with inventory. Unfortunately, Phil was in a mood and a half today.

Actually, scratch that – this wasn’t new. Phil had been getting shorter and surlier with Chris since not long after they boarded the Fontana, and Chris couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t like Chris wasn’t making an effort to spend as much time with him as he could – the XO’s schedule was demanding, but not so much that it cut into Chris-and-Phil time. And it wasn’t like Chris’ relationship with Gen was a drain on his potential Phil time, either; he and Gen weren’t exactly…well, _dating._ Not in the traditional sense, at least.

“Cordamuzaprine, four doses,” Phil was muttering in a dull voice. Chris sat on his desk in the CMO office, PADD in hand, while Phil counted off hypos. “Icothiol, fifteen doses. Panaprine, thirty doses. I hand that shit out like candy, though; gotta synthesize more.” Phil sighed. “Allotracin, seven five-hundred milligram doses, nineteen two gram doses…”

Chris had stopped listening. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Phil answered without looking up. “Cordrazine, twenty-nine doses.”

“Are _we_ okay?” Chris pressed. “Did I do something?”

Phil looked at Chris for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to his hypos.

“Uh-uh. No, don’t give me that dismissive look.” Chris tossed his PADD down with a mild clatter. “You’re pissed at me about something and I don’t even know what I did. This isn’t fair. You’ve never been shy about telling me how I’ve got my head up my ass before, so c’mon.” Chris folded his arms, scooting to the edge of Phil’s desk and letting his legs dangle. “Talk to me.”

Phil shot what could only be called a _glare_ in Chris’ direction, then sighed. “All right,” he began, as diplomatically as he could. “I’m really… _unsettled_ …about this thing between you and Gen.”

“Unsettled,” Chris repeated. It wasn’t a question.

Phil looked up and directed his voice not to Chris but to the small print of the Greek goddess Artemis that decorated his wall. “She’s your _subordinate,_ Chris,” he said softly.

Chris blinked at Phil. “By _one rank;_ that’s hardly a dramatic power imbalance.”

“That doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist,” Phil said softly.

Chris shook his head like a dog. “Wait a minute. When I had that…that… _thing_ with Number One, you never acted like this. As I recall, you thought it was _funny._ And she and I were _two_ ranks apart. Why now? Why Gen?”

Phil waved a hand dismissively. “Everybody knew that you and Laura was a stupid, drunken bad idea,” he sighed. “This is different. This is _habitual._ I just…” Phil swallowed audibly. “I don’t know. I thought you had more integrity than that.”

In an instant, Chris saw red. “What the – are you questioning my _professional ethics?”_

“No, I’m just saying that…look, it might be small, but there is an imbalance of power in your relationship,” Phil protested. “I realize you don’t have the power to hire and fire her, but you _do_ have to give her orders as part of your job, and she _does_ have to obey them as a part of _her_ job. Where are the lines? Does she know where the lines are? Do _you?_ Have you two even _talked_ about that?”

“What the hell are you suggesting?” Chris demanded. “Are you saying that – what – I’d give her orders that she couldn’t say no to in bed? That I’d force her to do something she didn’t want to do?”

“I didn’t say that!” Phil said sharply.

“Then clarify it for me, _Doctor!”_ Chris yelled. “You’ve clearly got a feeling something _bad_ is going to happen here, so _lay it out for me!”_

Phil was silent for a moment. “I’m _saying,”_ he said deliberately, “that there may be aspects of this thing that are more complicated than you’re giving them credit for.” Phil paused, putting a hand on his hip. “Okay. Okay, let’s say you’re right. Let’s give you the benefit of the doubt and say that your relationship in the bedroom is entirely egalitarian, in spite of the power dynamics on the bridge. After all, you have a point. This imbalance was there with you and Laura, and other than the fact that you still can’t use her given name, your professional relationship didn’t suffer. Mea culpa, concern tabled. All right?” He paused. “My question, then, is this: What happens with you and Gen when your personal relationship changes? What happens to your professional relationship when one of you falls in love with the other, or falls in love with somebody else, or wants to change the rules of engagement? What happens on the bridge of this ship when things behind closed doors change for you two?”

“They don’t _have_ to change at all,” Chris protested. “We’ve made it work this long.”

“Without feelings?”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “I thought this was a _professional_ concern.”

“Without feelings?”

“You know what? Take your psych degree and – ”

“Dammit, answer me. _Without feelings?”_

Chris sighed. “Yes. Without feelings. We’re screwing, not eloping. No strings, no feelings, no complications. It _works_ for us. We’re _happy_ with it that way.”

“Jesus Christ, Christopher. It’s _me_ you’re talking to.” Phil raked a hand through his hair. “Look, in the twenty-odd years I’ve known you, you’ve never – not _once_ – been able to do a casual relationship. _Never._ The few times you’ve tried, you’ve felt like absolute shit afterward.”

Chris shrugged dramatically. “Call it personal growth.”

“I’m calling it _bullshit,_ and I think you know that’s what it is,” Phil declared. “Look, some people can do casual sex, and some people cannot, and you, Commander Pike, fall into the latter category. That’s not good or bad; it just _is,_ but it does mean that by trying to pull this fuck buddy thing off with Gen, you are lying to yourself. Your marriage taught you that, Chris – that trying to force yourself to be someone you’re not ends badly for you. I’m worried about you, because this is a mistake.”

“Gen and I would disagree with that fine medical opinion,” Chris snapped.

“Well, here’s a second opinion, then, from somebody who knows you better than you know yourself. You’re gonna fall in love with her, Chris, because you cannot compartmentalize for _shit,_ and you know it – not when it comes to work, not when it comes to friends, and especially not when it comes to sex. Sex without love isn’t worth it to you; it never has been, and if you’re not willing to give up the sex, you’re going to add some love to compensate, because you can’t _not,_ and it’ll backfire. She’s _not_ going to fall right back in love with you, because from what I can tell, Gen _is_ capable of keeping sex and love in separate boxes if she wants to. And when she doesn’t love you back, it’s going to crush your spirit to the bone. So when you _fucking inevitably_ fall in love with her, you’re going to _fucking inevitably_ come to me to help pick up the shattered pieces of your broken heart _yet fucking again,_ because…” Phil’s voice got much softer before he continued, “…because I’m your best friend and it’s my job.” He paused, broke eye contact, and looked down at the surface of his desk. “And I am getting so tired of watching women leave you in tatters.”

Chris swallowed. He’d have rather marched to the gallows than admitted it, but Phil was uncomfortably right. Invoking Chris’ history with women was a low blow, but didn’t make it any less true. The more sex he had with Gen, and the _better_ sex was with Gen, the more he could feel something that looked a lot like love stalking him like a panther in his peripheral vision. And he was running from it, as fast as he could, but it was creeping up on him, and just like the proverbial panther, he knew he was doomed if it caught up to him.

He also knew that Phil was an asshole for calling him on it.

“Look,” Phil said, much more gently, “that was frustration talking. I’m sorry I – ”

“Oh, go to hell,” Chris intoned, and then stormed out of Phil’s office.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, unable to get it out of his head, Chris nudged Gen as she lay sweaty and sated next to him.

“Hmm?” she said, stretching languidly.

“Do you feel like you have to do this because I’m your superior?”

Gen cocked her head to the side. “Is _that_ what’s been bugging you tonight?”

Chris traced a nonsense pattern into the duvet with his finger. “I just…I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything in bed that you don’t want to, just because I outrank you. I don’t think you feel that way, but I’ve just got to make sure you don’t think I’m taking advantage of you.”

Gen laughed lightly. “You saw on your first day what kind of respect I have for the chain of command. If I thought you were taking advantage of me, I’d have punched you, then spaced you.”

Chris nodded, then sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Good.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris and Phil didn’t speak for nine days.

Nine very, very long days.

Chris tried to concentrate on his job. He tried to see more of Gen, though she’d been incredibly tired lately and not much in the mood for sex. He hadn’t told her directly about the fight with Phil, but Chris doubted there was a person aboard who didn’t know they were on the outs. He tried to see other friends, but the next closest person to him on the ship, after Phil and Gen, was Captain Russell. And while Evan was a nice guy, they weren’t exactly on “hanging out” terms.

Chris missed Phil.

(Chris was still mad at Phil, but Chris missed Phil.)

“Boyce to Pike.”

_Speaking of._

Chris glared at his comm. “Pike.”

“Please report to medbay,” Phil said cordially. He sounded so goddamn _professional,_ and _god,_ Chris _really_ wanted to pop him one.

Captain Russell waved him off, and Chris responded, “I’m on my way.”

When Chris walked in, Phil was standing in front of a biobed, arms folded neutrally. The surprising bit was that Gen was perched on the biobed, looking…oddly serious.

Phil saw Chris and stepped aside. Chris ignored Phil entirely and went straight to Gen. Her eyes were completely dry, but her brow was furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” Chris asked. “Are you sick?”

Gen took a deep breath and raised her eyebrows. “I’m pregnant.”

Time slowed. All the saliva in Chris’ mouth evaporated. His vision went fuzzy at the edges, then darkened. His muscles suddenly didn’t work. He distantly heard Gen say “Chris?” And then a shiny medbay floor was rushing toward him at alarming speed.

He woke up on a biobed of his own a few minutes later, Phil standing over him with a tricorder.

“Yeah, I thought that might happen,” Phil muttered loftily. Chris tried to sit up, but Phil’s hand came down on his shoulder, pushing him none too gently back down. “Not on your life. Not yet.”

Chris looked at Phil, at the tricorder sensor being waved over his forehead, and then back to Gen, who was very deliberately not looking at him.

“Pregnant?” he managed hoarsely. “I mean… _pregnant?”_

Gen’s voice was tight. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“How, um… _god._ How far along are you?”

Gen looked to Phil to answer the question.

“Six menstrual weeks, give or take a day,” he said lowly. “Very early.”

Chris blinked. “Okay, next question: _how the fuck did this happen?”_

Gen answered this time. “Beta Helbsea.”

Chris felt un-dizzy enough to sit up on his elbows, and then fully, while he thought back. Beta Helbsea… _right._ The Class H planet he, Gen, and Lieutenant Mendez had surveyed about a month ago. The radiation levels it was spitting out were so high that the Fontana couldn’t approach closer than a million kilometers, but, with special inoculations, a small shuttle team could survey it from high orbit. It was, all in all, a fruitful but pretty uneventful mission.

Chris turned on Phil. “The radiation? But you said the inoculations would protect us?”

“They did,” Phil said. “Cordamuzaprine is the reason you aren’t burnt to a crisp. It’s almost never used – I’d never prescribed it before I gave it to the three of you – but it protects organic tissue like a dream.”

Chris looked from Phil to Gen and back again in panicky confusion.

“But, as it turns out, not _in_ organic tissue,” Phil continued. “The radiation chewed straight through your contraceptive implants. You were fertile again by the time you hit the shuttlebay doors.”

Chris’ look at Phil became accusatory. “How did you not figure this out _sooner?!”_

“It wasn’t established in the medical literature, and you haven’t been in here as a patient since then for me to find out,” Phil said, not rising to the bait. “Neither has Gen, until today. Mendez has, but didn’t have an implant. Without scanning you, I wouldn’t have had any way to know.”

Chris buried his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up. Gen was somberly looking down at the floor.

“I just came in because I had a headache,” she said softly. “I had no idea.”

Chris swallowed thickly. “What are you…I mean…we’ve gotta talk about this, I guess.”

Gen just nodded.

Phil’s eyes were on Gen; they were solemn, but steady. “You’re off on medical leave for the rest of the day. When you make a decision, let me know. If you have questions between now and then, my door’s always open, okay?”

Gen nodded again, flitting her gaze up to Phil. “Thanks, Dr. Boyce.”

Chris and Phil’s eyes met, and they had a complete silent conversation in a matter of a few seconds. _I’m sorry. I know. I’m scared. It’ll be okay. Thank you. I’m here for you._

The walk back to Gen’s quarters didn’t take long, and when they arrived, she immediately collapsed onto one end of the couch, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Chris sat on the other end, looking at her.

 _“Shit,”_ Gen said with feeling.

Chris nodded, a little numbly. “I know.”

Gen played with a stray thread on the blanket thrown over the back of her couch. “Dr. Boyce said we had some time,” she said quietly. “To figure out…what we want to do.”

“What _do_ you want to do?” Chris asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Gen shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the next six days, Chris and Gen got, _maybe,_ a combined total of twelve hours of sleep.

On duty, Gen was the consummate professional. She did her job quickly, efficiently, and competently. She’d been spared the ordeal of morning sickness (so far), so there were no mad dashes to the head from the bridge. She was considerably quieter and less snarky than usual, but otherwise, she gave no outward indication that anything was off.

Chris was another story. He was short and snappy and just _barely_ restrained a growl when crewmen approached him. He’d always tried to be patient with honest error, but his patience had dropped several notches; his tolerance for careless mistakes, which had never been high, was now nonexistent.

Word apparently traveled that _Commander Pike is in a mood, do not test him,_ because by day three, even crewmen who rarely came to the bridge were cutting him a wide berth in the corridors.

Off duty, Chris and Gen shared space most of the time and did their communication in short bursts interspersed with long silences.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Have you ever thought about having children?”

“Once. When I was married. I couldn’t make myself want it.”

“I never wanted kids.”

“Past tense?”

“Well. The opportunity’s presented itself. Now I’m not so sure.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We’d have to go dirtside if we had it.”

“What? Why?”

“We can’t raise a kid on the Fontana. It’s too dangerous.”

“Earth’s not _not_ dangerous.”

“Don’t split hairs, Chris; you know what I mean.”

“We’d be going dirtside anyway. We’re supposed to be back in drydock in a month.”

“And then back up six months after that.”

“Are you planning on coming back up?”

“Are _you?”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We both have dangerous occupations. What if one of us gets hurt?”

“Well, I have a sister. I haven’t talked to her in a few years, but maybe she could take the kid.”

“That…doesn’t sound viable.”

“I guess we’d just have to work that out later.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I was an accident.”

“You were?”

“They couldn’t really figure out how I happened, but I did.”

“But your parents kept you.”

“Not necessarily to anyone’s benefit.”

“To Starfleet’s, one could argue. To the galaxy’s. To Dr. Boyce’s. To your own.”

“Look, I always knew I was a mistake. I always felt it. No kid deserves to feel like that.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you want me to have an abortion?”

“It’s your body and your choice. I’ll back you up no matter what.”

“But if it was up to you?”

“It’s a moot point. It’s not.”

“Chris – ”

“Gen, I don’t think I’d make a good father. At all. My preference, yes, would be for termination. But this is not my call; it’s _yours,_ and I will support whatever decision you make.”

“I’m still not sure.”

“I know.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Phil told me this thing between us would come back to bite me in the ass.”

“You should listen to your best friend more often.”

“Yes, so he’s told me.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil found Chris in his quarters, sitting on his couch, in one of the rare moments where Gen was able to get some sleep in her own bed. He walked in with his medical override, right up to Chris, and gently shoved Chris’ knee, getting him to budge over. He set the lowball glasses on the table and started opening the scotch he’d brought.

Chris raked a hand through his hair. “What are you doing here?”

Phil gave Chris a Look and poured them each a few fingers. “Sometimes a man will tell his bartender things he’d never tell his doctor.”

There was a long pause while they both stared into their glasses.

“Did you tell Russell?” Chris finally managed. Starfleet regulations mandated that a starship crewman’s pregnancy had to be reported to the captain upon diagnosis.

“Tell him what? That Lieutenant Commander Lopez came to see me a few days ago for an analgesic for her headache? Why would I do that?”

Chris looked at Phil carefully, then sipped his scotch. “Thank you, Phil.”

Phil shook his head. “I’ll tell him if and when it becomes relevant to the operations of the Fontana. Otherwise, none of his goddamn business.” Phil sipped his scotch, shaking his head. “Invasive bullshit reg anyway.”

Chris set his drink down and laced fingers together at the back of his neck with his head down. “She still doesn’t know what she’s gonna do.”

“I know,” Phil said gently. _Of course. He would, wouldn’t he?_

Chris’ voice got very small. “I really, _really_ don’t want her to have it.” He looked up at Phil. “That makes me a selfish prick, doesn’t it?”

“There’s a difference between being _selfish_ and being _honest,”_ Phil noted. “You know the ultimate decision has to be hers, right?”

“Of _course_ I know that,” Chris snapped.

“Okay, just checking,” Phil said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “So, if you know that, then having an opinion just makes you honest. You only become a selfish prick if you start issuing demands about it.”

“God, Phil,” Chris said weakly, “you know my track record. You know I’m goddamn useless here. Can you actually see me as a father?”

Phil swallowed audibly. “I could get used to it.”

“I’m not sure I could,” Chris said. “I’ve been in firefights, I’ve been held hostage, I’ve been shot at, but I’ve _never_ been this goddamn _scared.”_

“Everybody in your position always is,” Phil said. “Everybody in _Gen’s_ position even more so.”

“I know, and I’m trying to be there for her, but _god,_ the uncertainty, it’s like walking a fucking _tightrope.”_

Phil sighed. “I know, Chris. Listen, no matter how this ends, it’s gonna be fine, okay? I’ve got your back in this. Both of you. Whether that means doing what needs doing off the record or… _god,_ turning into Uncle Phil, heaven help us all. You and Gen are both sharp and capable and you can handle this, but you’ve also got support. Don’t forget that.”

Chris looked up at Phil, who looked gentle and strong as Chris was completely coming apart at the seams, thinking about their fight that seemed so, so long ago now. “Listen, about a couple weeks ago, I’m sorry I – ”

“Don’t,” Phil interrupted, putting up a hand to forestall Chris’ apology. “I think we both said things we wish we hadn’t. Water under the bridge, okay?”

Chris nodded. “Okay.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They must have fallen asleep, because they both woke up to a gasping comm.

“Lopez to Boyce.”

Phil blinked awake and flipped his comm as Chris wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Boyce here. What’s up, Gen?”

“Something’s wrong. I need a beam to medbay. _Now.”_

Phil and Chris made split-second eye contact, then flew out of Chris’ quarters, running most of the way. Phil commed the gamma shift transporter chief en route, calling for an emergency medical transport.

When they arrived in medbay, Phil didn’t even blink – he just walked up to the biobed and immediately got to work asking Gen questions, assessing her color, and looking at his readings. Chris was momentarily paralyzed in the doorway by the sight of her, a hand pressed tight to her abdomen, a not-insignificant amount of blood blooming under her lower half.

Coming back to himself, Chris walked up to her, running a hand through her hair absently as his eyes stayed focused on the blood and on Phil’s expression. Gen winced. Finally, Phil nodded.

“Complete miscarriage,” he declared quietly.

Chris and Gen made eye contact. Gen clapped a hand to her forehead and let out a massive sigh-laugh of relief. Chris fell into an inelegant squat below the biobed, feeling his heart rate come down for the first time in nearly a week.

_It’s over._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey.”

“Hi, Gen.”

“So.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen. I had _so_ much fun with you. But…”

“…but this was way too close a call and you don’t think it’s a good idea to keep it up?”

“Something like that.”

“Good. Me too.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“I’ll see you on the bridge for docking procedures, then.”

“You will…and, for what it’s worth, thank you…Commander Pike.”

“Thank _you,_ Lieutenant Commander Lopez.”


	11. Chapter 11

By virtually any metric, May 12 was shaping up to be a _spectacularly_ shitty day for Chris.

It all began when his comm lost charge overnight, which led him to not only oversleep, but to not get the messages left for him at 0800, 0815, and 0830 by the people in charge of the 0730 meeting he’d been slated to attend. When he finally did wake up and charge his comm, it was to find not only those messages waiting for him, but one from Erin. Chris hadn’t seen her for ages and desperately wanted to get together with her and her wife and new baby while he was dirtside, but apparently her wife’s mother had taken ill and the whole family was on their way to Betazed to be with her.

He got out of bed and took a shower, realizing too late that he was _completely_ out of shampoo, which meant his hair got to feel disgusting for the rest of the day. Wandering into the kitchen, he found a bug the size of a bird of prey just chilling in the scoop of coffee he pulled out of the bag.

After letting out a _perfectly masculine_ screech, _thank you very much,_ and beating the thing to death with a shoe, Chris was about ready to throw in the towel on this day and call in sick, but chose – against his better judgment – to go into the office, late though it was. En route, he stopped at a shop around the corner from Academy grounds for a coffee, plus a random fruit pastry to keep his blood sugar from tanking.

Dotted with hives thirty minutes later, Chris surmised that the pastry had had mango in it.

He went to Medical and just looked at Phil miserably.

Phil looked back at him with no discernable change in facial expression. “Cantaloupe?” he asked blithely.

“Mango.”

Phil grabbed an antihistamine hypo, stabbed Chris with it unceremoniously, and said, “Next time, dearest, maybe try consuming foods you’re _not_ allergic to.”

(Okay, so also, Phil was evidently in a mood. But at least it wasn’t a mood to get arrested, so…win?)

As soon as he could get out of the office, he changed into the civvies he kept in his bottom desk drawer – he spilled coffee on himself trying to scratch at the hives, because _of course he did_ – and went to the grocery store, hoping to get shampoo, bug-untouched coffee, and something idiot-proof to heat up for dinner. As he was leaving, he _flawlessly_ backed right into another car.

A _nice_ car.

An _occupied_ car, though Chris couldn’t quite make out the driver other than to know there was one in the car. The way this day was going, he thought, it was probably a lawyer.

_Fucking fantastic._

And he wasn’t even in uniform, so if the driver had hearts in their eyes for Starfleet, he didn’t even have _that_ bargaining chip.

Chris threw his car in park with a little more venom than the situation really called for, and then climbed out of his car, to find himself face to face with…

_…wow._

A woman, first of all. A human woman. Probably not ‘Fleet, as she was in civvies and Chris did not recognize her. His age, give or take a couple of years. Tall, though not as tall as Chris; light brown hair in a pageboy, about the same color Phil’s hair had been before it started going gray; with big blue eyes and creamy skin.

_Holy shit, she’s gorgeous._

Chris took a moment to remind himself that he was an adult, goddammit, and he should act like one, before approaching her. She had knelt next to the bumpers of both cars, trying to assess the damage in the low light. She looked up at Chris and gave him a sympathetic smile, and Chris’ knees weakened.

His first instinct was to apologize, but he remembered being told once _don’t say sorry; sorry is an admission of guilt and an admission of guilt leads to suing,_ so he stepped on that instinct and instead went with, “Well, I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.”

The woman’s smile grew. “Rough day?”

“You might say that.” Chris gestured to her car. “How’s it look?”

She squinted. “Probably not too bad, but it’s hard to tell with the sun going down.” She stood up and dusted her hands off on her jeans. “I’ll take a closer look in the light.”

“Well, here,” Chris said, scribbling his frequency down, “let me give you my comm and I’ll take care of it.”

She took the number. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, but I’ll let you know.” She grinned. “Rebecca Hart, by the way.” She stuck her hand out, and Chris shook it.

“Chris Pike. Sorry about all this.” _You just said sorry, you dumbass._

“Don’t worry about it. Hope you have a better evening.”

That was that. They got into their respective cars and drove off.

A couple hours later, Chris stood in his kitchen, letting his (now, thankfully, washed) hair drip dry as he waited for his frozen pizza to cook, when his comm buzzed.

“Pike.”

“…Mr. Pike? It’s Rebecca Hart. We met in the parking lot today…?”

Chris could feel his face heating up, even in the absence of anybody else actually in the room with him. “Yeah, of course, Ms. Hart. You get home okay?”

She laughed melodiously. “Oh, yeah, fine. I looked at it under the garage lights when I got home, and you know, it’s barely a scratch. Good body shop should be able to rub it out, no problem.”

Chris nodded. “Good to hear. Well, like I said, just let me know what the damage is and I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about it,” she said kindly. “Actually, I was calling because, ah…” She paused, laughed a little, then continued. “I was just curious if you might want to get a drink sometime.”

Chris blinked. “A drink?”

He could hear her breathe deeply on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I don’t know, it just seemed like we had some kind of…chemistry…tonight, and, well, I thought maybe if we got to know one another, maybe we’d have…more…chemistry. You know?”

Chris stared at his comm as if it were malfunctioning.

“Mr. Pike?” she said on the other end, her voice falling a little. “It’s okay; you don’t have to say yes. Oh, god – you’re married, or gay, or something, aren’t you?”

“No!” Chris said quickly. “No, no…I’m divorced, and I’m into women, I mean, unless someone proves me wrong on that scale, I guess.”

A voice in the back of his brain that sounded way too much like Phil’s for comfort chimed in, _That’s a funny way of saying that you’re straight._ Chris whacked it repeatedly with a stick.

“Okay, good, my radar’s not _completely_ off, then,” she was saying.

“Yeah,” Chris said distractedly. “I mean, yes. Yes, a drink sounds good.”

“Really?” She sounded excited. Something warmed under Chris’ skin. “Great! I work for myself so my schedule’s my own, but I assume that’s not the case for you, so do you want to do, maybe, tomorrow night? Around the same time as our little misadventure tonight?”

A small smile curled over Chris’ face. “Sure. You know O’Reilly’s?”

“I do,” she confirmed. “It’s a date.”

“Looking forward to it, Ms. Hart.”

That melodious laugh sounded again. “Call me Becca… _Chris.”_

Chris burned his pizza a little bit, but as he stood there crunching on the slightly blackened crust, he considered that maybe the day hadn’t been as shitty as he’d thought.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was comparison-shopping tupperware when his comm buzzed.

“Pike,” he answered.

“Well hello there, my wonderful, amazing, best friend-slash-One Phone Call,” Phil’s voice greeted him.

It took Chris a minute. Then: _“Goddammit, Philip, are you in jail again?!”_

“A protest may have gone mildly awry,” Phil replied affably. “But it was a worthy cause!”

Chris abandoned his tupperware search and stormed out of the Spend and Save. “They’re _all_ worthy causes to you,” he muttered angrily.

“And that’s why you’ll bail me out, isn’t it dear?” Phil said sweetly.

“I hate you,” Chris said before hanging up.

Twenty minutes later, Chris’ bank account was considerably lighter, and Phil was waving to him cheerfully from the other side of a force field.

“Do I even want to know what it was this time?” Chris asked wearily as the guard deactivated the force field.

“Farming _xylbraxa_ for food,” Phil said with a grimace as he walked out of the holding cell.

“And the problem with that is?” Chris said incredulously.

“They’re _sentient!”_ Phil protested.

“The research team that published that study had their funding pulled and the head researcher lost her license for pulling facts out of her ass,” Chris squawked. “You let yourself get arrested for _that?!”_

Phil rolled his eyes. “I’m not the one who brought the goddamn phaser rifle.”

“Oh _Jesus,_ Phil.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…to boldly go where no one has gone before.”

“Congratulations, Captain Pike.”

Chris shook Jonathan Archer’s hand after he finished his recitation of the Captain’s Oath. The glint of that third stripe on his sleeve still didn’t look quite real.

“It’s my honor to order you to report to the USS Lovell, registry number NCC-1928, for duty as her commanding officer.”

“Aye, sir.”

Phil whooped unbecomingly from the small audience. Becca just smiled fondly. Number One affectionately rolled her eyes in Phil’s direction.

_Captain Pike._ That sounded so, so nice.

Chris’ first command, the Lovell, was a sleek, efficient little beauty, and he couldn’t wait to see what she could actually do. As they usually did with a new captaincy, Starfleet had decided to stick at first to diplomatic missions of the _come to the Federation we have cookies_ variety, progressively giving her longer-term diplomatic and scientific missions and more tactical and defense assignments once Chris and her crew had (literally) proven their stripes. With him center seat and Number One as his XO, Chris didn’t think it’d take long at all before those more advanced missions came their way.

As much as Chris was really itching to go back into the black long term, the nice thing about their first mission profiles was that they’d be close enough to home and short-term enough that his relationship with Becca could continue with relatively little interruption. Which was _excellent,_ because Chris adored Becca in a rare and precious way and did not want to lose her, not even for the black.

They’d been seeing each other for six months, and in that time, she’d wiggled her way into Chris’ heart to where he couldn’t imagine her ever getting out. She was a writer and journalist, a pescetarian, hated olives, had no interest in ever having children, had a sister, was mildly aviophobic, and had been extremely close to her grandfather, just like Chris had been. She was also dryly funny, knew exactly how Chris liked to be touched, and was an excellent listener when Chris told some of the less savory parts of his life story, like his mother’s illness or his grandfather’s death. It was comfortable. It was _exciting._ Even Phil, who historically had always been oddly protective of Chris when he got into a new relationship, warmed to Becca very quickly.

A flourishing relationship, captaincy of a beauty of a ship, getting to serve with a couple of his best friends on board…things seemed like, after a million false starts, they were finally falling into place for Chris.

So when Chris had had the Lovell for six months and got the orders to go out for a year-long tour, he smiled sadly at the terminal. It was exciting news, to be sure, and he was thrilled to get the chance to flex the Lovell’s muscles…but it also meant leaving Becca behind.

He was a realist. It was one thing when a captain and civilian who’d been married for years got orders like this; they were accustomed to the long separation and had their tricks for getting through it. But an unmarried captain and civilian who’d barely been seeing one another for a year? It’d never happen.

This was probably the end of the best relationship of Chris’ life, and it hurt.

Chris steeled himself to comm Becca and tell her the news.

“What does that mean?” Becca asked blankly.

Chris took a calming breath. “It means I’m going out into deep space for a year,” he clarified. “We’ll be covering a few parsecs, as opposed to just the neighboring sectors of Earth. Same kind of stuff, diplomacy and science-based missions, but farther out.” He smiled sadly. “Little contact with Earth.”

Becca blinked on the terminal, pursing her lips as the implications of that news soaked in. “Oh.”

Chris ran a finger down the image of her face, feeling his heart crack. “Bec…”

“And you…you have to take it, right? You can’t turn down the mission?”

Chris sadly shook his head. “No, honey, I’m afraid not.”

A tear overflowed Becca’s eyes on the screen. “I don’t want this to end.”

Chris let out a long, low breath. “I don’t either.” He kissed his fingertips and touched them to the screen. “I’m sorry, Bec.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was launch day, and Chris was nursing a whale of a headache. He had a stack of supply requisitions in his ready room that still needed his signoff, a meeting to conduct with his chief of security, and a trip to engineering to make to discuss nacelle geometry. Somewhere between a visit from the xenoanthropology department with sociological data on the first species they were to make contact with and a hectic trip to the supply office to fix a replicator that wouldn’t stop spitting out flimsy components, Phil appeared like an angel from heaven with an analgesic hypo.

“I could kiss you,” Chris sincerely said as the pain in his head began to ebb.

“Don’t make promises you aren’t gonna keep,” Phil said dryly. “Your transporter chief wants to see you.”

Chris had to restrain the urge to stomp his foot like a toddler. “Why?” he whined.

Phil held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’ll have to ask him. I’m just the messenger.”

Wincing, Chris headed down to the transporter room. “Yes, Ensign Greene, what can I do for you?”

Ensign Greene just smiled and energized a transport, the shimmering sparkles slowly materializing on the pad, into…

“…Bec?”

Becca seemed to flex her fingers against the strap of her duffel, as if testing her actual solidity, before she stepped off the transporter pad, smiling softly.

“I made a deal with my editor,” she said. “As long as I can get her twenty thousand words a month over subspace, she’ll keep my contract.”

Chris blinked at her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “What…you’re…you’re coming with me?” he breathed. “But…you’re scared of flying, how are you gonna…”

Becca cupped his face. “I couldn’t let you go.”

Chris swept her up in his arms and swung her around, laughing, pressing little murmurs of _oh my god_ and _I love you_ into her hair. Ensign Greene politely turned his back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Lovell was about four months into her mission and she’d already made eleven first contacts – well on the way to a record. Her crew was sharp, punctual, and detail-oriented; Number One was the perfect by-the-book counterpart to Chris’ freer command style; the weekly CO/CMO meetings usually just became Drinks with Chris and Phil, because, well, Chris and Phil.

Best of all, though, was that Becca was there. She was still having trouble adjusting to living in space, true, but she was getting there, slowly but surely. She’d use the time while Chris was on duty to work from the comfort of their quarters; when he was off shift, they’d spend as much time together as they could possibly manage. She’d managed to make friends on the ship, too – she and Cait Barry, in particular, seemed to really hit it off – and would get together with them for lunch every once in a while. Number One liked her a lot, even though they had considerably different personalities, and Phil’s opinion of her remained high.

As for Chris? He couldn’t recall ever having been so in love. Becca was a complete package: smart, articulate and witty; made Chris laugh until his sides hurt; beautiful, adorable, and sexy, and yes, those _were_ all different things, so shut up; shared his views on not wanting children (a major sticking point with him after Siobhan, and even more so after Gen); patient with his more mercurial moods; knew how important his career was to him. That she cared enough about him, about their relationship, to come up into space with him? It was an unimaginably beautiful gesture.

Chris felt _happy._

It shouldn’t have been a new feeling for him, but it was.

It was nearly 2300 hours. Becca was leaning into him on the sofa in their quarters, reading, snorting out a little laugh at a passage she’d just gone over. Chris had his arms around her waist and was “resting his eyes.” (Had anybody ever actually bought that line?)

Chris pulled her a little closer, smelling the jasmine from her shampoo, and thought about how close this was to perfect.

Then he thought, _hell, I’ve married for less._

“Hey,” he said lowly.

Becca looked back and up, making eye contact with him. “Hey.”

Chris smiled at her, feeling an odd absence of anxiety. “You wanna get married?”

Becca’s eyes grew wide. She closed her book with a snap. “Are you serious?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah.”

Becca looked at him for a long moment…then smiled. Hugely.

“Yeah. I do.”

Chris grinned and tugged her in to kiss her, before Becca broke away.

“Soon? Now? Tonight? Please?”

He raised his eyebrows delightedly. “Really?”

Becca giggled, high on happiness. “Really!”

Chris just nodded and kissed her again. Becca, again, broke away.

“Wait, wait,” she said, laughing, “how…how do we do that here? I mean, I know on ships the captain usually marries people, but you can’t marry yourself, and – ”

“I have an idea.” Chris flipped his comm open while she was talking. “Pike to Boyce.”

“What’s up, Chris?” Phil’s voice responded.

“Just curious – is your paperwork still good for you to officiate marriages between Federation citizens?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t expire. Why?”

Chris grinned slyly at Becca. “Report to the Captain’s quarters.”

Silence.

The pause went on so long that Chris started to check his comm to ensure it was functioning properly.

Then, finally: “On my way.”

Phil arrived a few minutes later, still in uniform, with a funny look on his face.

“I’m sorry, I know, it’s late, I’m an asshole, yell at me later, okay?” Chris babbled, letting him in the door. “We just…” He looked over at Becca, beautiful, beaming Becca, _about to be my wife_ Becca. “We couldn’t wait. I asked, she said yes.”

Phil looked between them, blinking strangely, before saying, “Did you?” in a very soft voice. There was a small smile on his face, kind of a weird one.

“I would’ve told you,” Chris said. “But it was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

Phil swallowed visibly, then nodded and tried to arrange his features into something that looked like a smile. “Well. I’m…I’m so happy for both of you. Truly.”

Chris frowned and cocked his head at Phil. _What’s wrong with him tonight?_ But before he could make the inquiry, Phil came to himself a little.

“All right, Bec, come up here and stand next to Chris. If you two are doing this, you’re gonna do it right.”

Becca stood facing Chris, joining hands with his and grinning like her life depended on it. Chris felt very much like he was made of soap bubbles, or cotton candy, or something else fluffy and ridiculous.

There was a pause. Phil looked between them, lingering just a little longer on Chris than he did on Becca. “You guys sure about this?”

Chris grinned and nodded. Becca giggled.

Phil took a breath beside Chris, and then spoke, his tone low and solemn. “Do you, Rebecca Celeste Hart, take…take Christopher Vincent Pike to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Becca broke in.

“He’s not done yet, babe,” Chris laughed.

“Do you vow that your commitment is given willingly, absolutely, and completely, to seize every opportunity, to cherish every moment, to learn and to laugh, to love freely, without reservation, without fear, and without confusion, to treasure and to trust, to carry and be carried, through wind and through fire, through the ecstasies and the miseries, through each glorious failure, each glorious victory, together as one?”

Chris squeezed Becca’s hands. _“Now_ you say it!”

Becca laughed. “I do.”

Phil turned to Chris, and their eyes met for a moment that probably only took a few seconds but felt like considerably longer.

Phil swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched lower. There was a heartbeat in it. “Do you, Christopher Vincent Pike, take Rebecca Celeste Hart to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you vow that your commitment is given willingly, absolutely, and completely, to seize every opportunity, to cherish every moment, to learn and to laugh, to love freely, without reservation, without fear, and without confusion, to treasure and to trust, to carry and be carried, through wind and through fire, through the ecstasies and the miseries, through each glorious failure, each glorious victory, together as one?”

He reached out and tweaked Becca’s chin. “Yeah, Phil, I really do.”

Phil paused for a moment. “By the power vested in me by the United Federation of Planets, I pronounce you married.”

Chris leaned in, cupped Becca’s face, and kissed her, delightedly. “We’re married.”

Becca actually squealed. “We are.” Then she turned and threw her arms around Phil, squeezing him tight, babbling.

“Thank you so much, Phil. Thank you, thank you, _thank you._ Oh my god, I just got _married!_ Thank you!”

When they broke apart, Chris came for Phil, pausing to clap his best friend on the shoulder. Chris was surprised to find Phil’s face glazed with tears.

“You old softie,” Chris teased gently, before wrapping his arms around him. “Thank you, Phil,” he whispered. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

Phil’s arms came around Chris with an unusual tentativeness, but fixed themselves around him with their same familiar security. “Congratulations, Chris,” he said softly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Chris sat at his desk in his ready room with a goofy smile of _I just got married on his face._ His glee was rudely interrupted by Number One, who walked in with storm clouds on her face and tossed a PADD down onto his desk.

“Security report,” she said shortly.

“Thanks, Number One,” he said, looking up at her with a soft expression. “Did you hear?”

The look on Number One’s face was so dangerous it nearly made Chris take a step back. “Yes. Congratulations, Captain.” Her tone did not even approximate pleasant.

Chris felt his eyebrows climb on his face. “Are we using titles in private now?”

Number One just gave him a look of mild disgust. “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” she said, dismissing herself.

Chris stared at the door after her for a long time.


	12. Chapter 12

The Lovell was dispatched to Damma II, an M-class planet with an apparently friendly and peaceful warp-capable civilization. They’d applied for Federation membership quite some time ago, and now were in the final stages of having their application accepted. If the Lovell’s visit went well, Chris himself would be able to confer membership status himself, which was a rather exciting prospect.

Chris chose to beam down with Number One, a security lieutenant named Ren Emara, and on Phil’s recommendation, a medic named Leah Frasier, who was, according to Phil, some kind of nursing wunderkind. Before he left that morning, Chris kissed a sleeping Becca on the cheek, whispering that he’d be home soon. She murmured nonsense in her sleep, and he laughed lightly.

When they beamed down to the desert-like world, Chris was immediately confused, looking around for the Damman delegation they were supposed to meet up with.

“Number One, are these the right coordinates?”

Number One checked her tricorder. “Yes, sir, they are. Maybe they’re just – ”

 _“Commander!”_ Frasier yelled.

Number One was cut off by a spectacular blow to the kidneys. A Damman, probably about as tall as Chris but completely hairless and far more muscular, kicked her in the spine when she was down. Ren squeezed off a couple of shots from her phaser, but the Damman brought friends, and she couldn’t take all of them out in a single shot. One of them cocked Chris cold on the back of the head, and unconsciousness quickly slipped over him.

When Chris came to, they were in a small holding cell, that appeared to be made of the Damman equivalent of cinderblock. He tried to sit up, but Frasier’s hand on his arm stopped him immediately.

“Not so fast, Captain,” she said, easing him back down. “You’re concussed as all hell. I’m doing what I can to get the swelling to go down.”

Chris groaned as the pain hit him, looking over to Number One. “You okay?”

She nodded. “My back’s killing me, but I’ll be all right.”

“Where are we?”

“We’re underground,” Ren answered. “They’ve got a whole network of caves here that we saw when they were leading us down. I think the rock is ferromagnetic; it’s gonna wreak all kinds of hell with the Lovell’s sensors trying to find us.”

“Fabulous,” Chris intoned. “Who the hell were they?”

“As far as we can tell, they’re what you Terrans would call a far-right separatist group,” Ren said. “On Bajor, we’d just call them terrorist assholes. They’re trying to sabotage Damma’s application for Federation membership.”

“How long have I been out?” Chris asked.

Frasier loaded a hypo from her medkit. “Maybe an hour. This’ll help with the pain.”

“You’ll need more than that to help with the pain,” a sinister voice said.

Unlocking the door, three Dammans stood blocking the doorway, glaring with a terrifying glee at their captives. The largest of the three turned his glare on Chris. “You,” he spat. “Captain. You will come with us.”

“Where are you taking him?” Number One asked.

“For a pleasant chat over tea,” the Damman replied sarcastically, flicking a snakelike tongue at her.

“He’s injured,” Number One protested. “I’m second in command; in his absence, I’m authorized to make decisions on his behalf. I’ll go with you.”

All three of the Dammans laughed uproariously. “We have no use for females.”

“He’s unwell,” Number One continued to protest. “Any agreements he makes with you while he’s in this condition will not be honored by the Federation.”

The two Dammans behind the one who’d done most of the communicating charged their phasers. The lead Damman smiled evilly. “He will come with us,” he said simply, “or all four of you will die here and now. Choose wisely.”

“Frasier, help me up,” Chris demanded.

“Captain, you’re not – ”

“Objection noted,” he cut her off, nodding to the head Damman. “Let’s go.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris didn’t remember a whole lot after that except pain.

He did remember asking why they were doing this. “Are you trying to convince the Federation to not accept Damma’s membership? Are you looking for information? Resources?”

The Damman smiled and flicked his snakelike tongue at him behind a gleeful smile. “Spite,” he spat.

Then the pain started again.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris came to back in the holding cell, an undetermined amount of time later, in a blinding amount of pain. He could hear Frasier talking.

“…both his fibulas are snapped in two, his concussion’s gone from bad to worse, and he’s got a hepatic laceration that’ll need surgery to repair, but I can’t even begin to try to control those things because I’m trying to keep up with the damage to his heart. I’m making do so far, but my equipment’s pretty substandard compared to what Dr. Boyce has up on the Lovell.” She paused, her voice breaking just slightly. “Commander, he’s bleeding internally, he’s at high risk of infection, and his electrical impulses are going haywire. That’s not even mentioning the possibility of traumatic brain injury. If we don’t get him off this rock soon, I’m going to be out of ideas as to how to help him.”

There was a hand in his hair. It felt like Number One’s.

Chris felt tired. So, so tired.

 _“Got it!”_ Ren shouted from the other side of the holding cell.

Chris tried to stay conscious to hear what Ren “got,” but irresistibly slipped back under.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke to the sound of a beeping biobed and the feel of scratchy Starfleet-issue bedding.

“Phil, he’s opening his eyes!”

_Becca. My sweet Becca._

He blinked a couple of times, getting his eyes to focus, and…there.

“Hi,” he croaked.

She burst into tears. Phil appeared behind her, and Number One behind him. Phil gripped the foot of the biobed and stumbled a little, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Am I on the Lovell?” he asked fuzzily.

“Yeah, Chris,” Phil supplied gently. “You are. You’re back.”

Chris blinked blearily, focusing down on Number One. “How’d we get away?”

Number One smiled. “Ren somehow picked the lock of our cell with her earring,” she said. “We made our way back through the tunnels, and our _intended_ delegation party helped us contact the Lovell when we reached the surface.”

Chris smiled weakly. “Commendations,” he said, stumbling over the word a little. “All three of you.” He turned back to Phil. “What’s the damage?”

“You cracked your skull, broke both your legs, your right wrist, and four ribs, plus some truly epic electrical damage to your myocardium, a handful of phaser burns, and a whopper of a concussion,” he answered. “Frasier saved your life, and I don’t even know how she managed it. You still need a little bit of regen on your right leg, and your head’s gonna kill for a few days, but beyond that, you’re gonna be fine.” Phil gave him a significant look. “This time.”

Number One squeezed Chris’ foot. “I need to get back to the bridge,” she said softly, smiling. “Glad you’re back with us, Chris.”

“Thanks, Number One,” Chris said as she made her way out.

Phil gave Becca a significant look before he spoke again. “I’m gonna leave you to talk with your wife before I take care of running any more tests on you and your hard head, okay?” He closed the privacy curtain around them, leaving Chris and Becca alone together.

Becca was quiet for a moment, looking down at where she held Chris’ hand.

“I’m so glad you were here when I woke up,” Chris said softly.

“I’m just glad you woke up at all,” Becca replied. She turned a watery stare on Chris. “Do you have any idea, any _remote_ comprehension, what a basketcase I’ve been these past few days?”

Chris sighed, trying to squeeze her hand. “Becca, this is – ”

“I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you were hurt, or how badly. I didn’t even know if you were still _alive._ I went four days wondering if I might be a _widow,_ Chris. Phil thought he was gonna have to _sedate_ me.” She wiped her eyes fitfully. “Maybe I can’t handle this. Life on a starship, life married to a Starfleet captain. I don’t know if I can stand that uncertainty again, or seeing you so beaten up. I don’t know if I could take it.”

Chris let her say her peace, then ran his hand along her cheek. “Sweetheart, listen to me,” he implored gently. “I know this was hard for you. I know it hurts. I know you’re angry and you’re scared. I get all of that.” He took a deep breath. “This is an unfortunate reality of the galaxy. It’s a part of my job I don’t relish either, trust me. But when I signed up for the service when I was seventeen, I knew what I was getting into. I knew I might get hurt sometimes, doing this work. But it’s important to me, and I do it because I love it.”

“This is worth it to you?” Becca asked incredulously.

“When I weigh it against the joy of being up here? Getting to explore uncharted territory in the universe? Bringing aid to people who are suffering? Trying to establish or ensure peace? Yeah, it’s worth it.” He swallowed. “People don’t talk about having a calling anymore, not really…but I have one, and this is it. I’m supposed to be up here.”

Becca sniffled. “Can you promise me you’re going to be more careful?”

The thought zipped through Chris’ mind that he could have been infinitely more careful and it wouldn’t have prevented the ambush on Damma II. He quietly dismissed it. “I promise.”

Becca leaned down, kissed him, and rested her forehead against his. “Okay.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were on their way home, but it was a long damn trip. Chris was a little sad that his first deep space mission was already over – nightmare with the Dammans aside, it’d been a good trip – but he knew there’d be another opportunity to come back out. The Lovell and her crew had done damn good work; Starfleet would reward that with more missions.

Becca, for her part, was trying to conceal her delight about getting back to Earth, but Chris knew she was relieved at the prospect of getting off a ship.

Chris had been up and on the bridge for several shifts in a row – they were skirting the edge of the Klingon-Federation border, and even though the Lovell was well on the Federation side, and the Klingons had thus far kept quiet, Chris wanted to stay on high alert. Unfortunately, his reflexes were deteriorating the longer he stayed awake, and it showed. Finally, Phil showed up on the bridge in high dudgeon and told Chris in no uncertain terms that he was off-duty for the next twelve hours.

Chris shot a little glare at Number One, who was _definitely_ in on this; then muttered something about mutiny and went back to his quarters, where he collapsed in bed, still in uniform. Becca curled into him and he slipped into unconsciousness.

They were both jolted awake by a violent shaking a few hours later.

“What is that?!” Becca cried, clinging to Chris’ top.

 _“Shit,”_ he intoned. “It’s phaser fire. God _dammit.”_ He got out of bed, putting both his hands on Becca’s shoulders. “Stay here, okay? _Stay here._ It’s gonna be okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Becca looked at him with wide blue eyes. “Chris?” she said, panicked.

Chris kissed her forehead. “I _have_ to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s okay.”

He ran from the room before Becca’s eyes could convince him to stay, as another jolt of phaser fire rumbled the ship, and darted to the bridge.

“Report,” he barked.

“Klingon bird of prey decloaked off the port bough,” Number One updated. “Starboard shields intact; port shields down to sixty-four percent – ” she was interrupted by another blast “ – make that fifty-eight percent.”

“Hail them,” Chris spat. A Klingon wearing commander insignia appeared on the screen seconds later.

“I’m Captain Christopher Pike; to whom am I speaking?” Chris asked, approaching the viewscreen.

The commander sneered. “I am K’Trah,” he said. “You intrude our space, Captain.”

Chris looked to his helmsman’s station. “Ensign Oliver, what is our current distance from the border between Federation and Klingon space?”

“Currently seven hundred twenty thousand kilometers from the boundary,” Oliver answered.

Chris looked back up to the screen exhaustedly. “Check your sensors again, K’Trah; we’re well on our side of the fence.”

“Too close,” K’Trah spat. “A distance of one million kilometers or more is acceptable. Any nearer than that, we will fire to protect our territory.”

“The most recent agreement between your Empire and the Federation specified a distance of five hundred thousand kilometers. We are well outside of that.”

 _“Inadequate!”_ K’Trah shouted. “My crew and I will not allow your _Federation_ rules to threaten our home!”

“So you’re changing the rules unilaterally? Is that what I’m hearing?” Chris shouted right back. “Where’s the _honor_ in that?”

K’Trah glared. “You will increase your distance from our borders to one million kilometers or greater, or we will continue firing. You have ten seconds to comply.”

Chris shook his head at the absurdity. “Fine. Ensign Oliver, pull us back, one point five million kilometers from the border, just for safety.” He looked back up at the viewscreen as he felt the Lovell’s engines begin to pull away. “Is that satisfactory, Commander?”

K’Trah nodded with pseudo-pleasantness. “Have a pleasant trip, Captain.” The link was terminated.

Chris looked around at the bridge. “Did I really just get awakened at four in the goddamn morning for a _course correction?”_ he asked no one, shaking his head. “What’s our status?”

“Port shields holding at fifty-eight percent; starboard shields undamaged,” Number One reported. “We’ve lost a couple scrapes of outer hull, but nothing we can’t do without. Medbay reports two injuries, both originating in engineering, neither serious.”

Chris leaned in next to her, so she was the only one who could hear. “Does this mean I can go back to bed?”

Number One shooed him off the bridge, and he headed back to his quarters.

Becca was still sitting straight up in bed, posture rigid, like an animal who sensed danger nearby – which, technically, she was. Chris approached, sat on the bed facing her, and pulled her trembling body into his, stroking her hair.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Bec. Just Klingons posturing. Not a big deal.”

“I can’t do this,” Becca blurted.

Chris’ heart sank. “Honey – ”

Becca was shaking her head. “Space, it’s just…it’s too much. I can’t do this. I can’t wake up in the middle of the night to find that Klingons are _shooting_ at me and my husband. I can’t.”

“Bec, listen to me,” Chris said gently. “We’re going home now, okay? We’re on our way back to Earth, and then we’re not going anywhere for a while.”

“I don’t know that I can come up here again at all,” she babbled frantically. “I don’t know that I can stand to watch _you_ come up here again. Chris, aren’t there things you could do on Earth? Positions you could take, teaching or something? I can’t stand this.”

“Okay, well that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it, okay?” Chris murmured in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “They’re not gonna talk about sending anybody back up for a while. Right now, let’s just focus on getting you back planetside.” He kissed her forehead, high, right on her hairline, so he could smell her jasmine shampoo. “It’s all right, Bec. You’re safe, I’m safe, the Lovell’s safe. It’s okay.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They lay in bed for a long time, as Becca came down from her panic.

“Maybe it’s just because it’s so new,” she said absently, bluffing with all her heart. “Maybe in a couple of years, maybe once I’m used to it, it’ll be easier.”

Chris buried his face in her hair. “I hope so.”

_Because a life without this job is no life at all._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris summoned Number One into his ready room a few sleepless nights later.

“When we get back to Spacedock,” he began, feeling his heart crack around the words, “I’m relinquishing command of the Lovell and recommending your advancement to captain her. I’m putting Spock in for a promotion to full commander; he’ll be your XO, if it goes through.”

Number One looked at him as if she couldn’t understand the language he’d just spoken. “You’re…you’re giving up command?”

Chris nodded numbly. “Becca can’t stand it here,” he said in monotone. “She’s terrified. She wants me to take a dirtside position.” Chris flicked his eyes up to Number One. “She’s my wife. I can’t just…just _disregard_ how strongly she feels about this.”

Number One was quiet for a long, long moment. Finally, she said, “I can’t imagine you being happy behind a desk.”

 _Neither can I,_ Chris wanted to say. “I’ll manage,” he said instead.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil’s resignation landed on his desk the next morning. Chris stormed down five decks, into medbay, and into Phil’s office, tossing the PADD down on his desk without pause.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded.

Phil picked up the PADD and began quoting. “I, Commander Philip J. Boyce, M.D., M.P.H., serial number MCO-032152, hereby relinquish my position as chief medical officer of the USS Lovell, effective – ”

“I know what the hell it says,” Chris snapped, “what I want to know is why it showed up on my desk in the first place. You’d really leave the Lovell without a CMO?”

Phil gave him a look that was half bemused, half pitying. “You and I decided fifteen years ago that we weren’t going to be separated unless we had no choice in the matter,” he reminded Chris gently. “I have a choice in the matter. You think I’m riding around in this tin can _without you?”_ He snorted. “Like hell.”

Chris felt a rush of strong affection for Phil, but swallowed it by asking, “Who’s gonna replace you?”

“I looked at the roster,” Phil said. “Zatrelakur’s next in line for a deep space assignment. She’s good. Laura’ll like her.”

“What about you?”

Phil smiled. “SFM was advertising for a staff surgeon. I nabbed it.”

“Surgeon?” Chris asked. “You’re gonna be bored as hell, not working in ob/gyn.”

Phil waved a dismissive hand. “Most of what I do here isn’t ob/gyn. It’s not a big deal. Plenty of time to pursue it on the side, anyway, and I can always specialize in pelvic surgery. You, on the other hand, _will_ probably be bored as hell not being behind the wheel of a ship.”

Chris sighed. “I’ll manage,” he said on the matter for the second time in as many days.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Rick Barnett got promoted,” Chris said. “They’re looking for a new Commander of Cadets.”

Phil chuckled. “Chris Pike, working with _children,”_ he muttered. “This bodes well.”

“They’re mostly adults,” Chris protested.

 _“Children,”_ Phil repeated with feeling.

Chris flicked Phil in the forehead affectionately.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They bought a house in Sacramento. It gave them enough distance from San Francisco to make them feel independent from Starfleet, but it was close enough that Chris could easily get to and from work via transporter. Plus, it was closer to Becca’s editor, and, well, she’d gone to _space_ for him; Chris figured he could hack living in Sacramento for her.

Episodes of off-world travel aside, it was the farthest he and Phil had lived from one another since the day they met. They still saw each other every day at work, but living so far from Phil was disconcerting on levels that seemed to reach deeper than just the disquiet of not being right around the corner from one’s best friend. Chris couldn’t put his finger on it.

All in all, though, he took to a dirtside position surprisingly easily. Sitting behind a desk was never going to be Chris’ favorite position, but as Commander of Cadets, he got to do class observations, meet with new recruits to discuss academic trajectory, conduct disciplinary reviews, review curricula, and make recommendations on commissions to new ranks for new graduates, which was interesting enough work. He liked it.

It wasn’t space travel – nothing would be space travel – but he liked it, mostly because Becca liked it, and Becca was home when he got home, with a kiss and an _I’m so glad to see you._

Also because it wouldn’t be forever. _Maybe once I’m used to it, it’ll be easier,_ she’d said.

They’d been married for two years and on terra firma for a year and a half of that time. He didn’t want to flat out ask her when she’d be “used to it,” but…when would she?

_When can I go back out there?_

_When can I go home?_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fleet Admiral Jonathan Archer was, at that point, pushing pretty damn hard on his fourteenth decade. It was a truth universally acknowledged that he didn’t have that much longer to go, which Chris thought was a damn shame. He liked Archer quite a lot. Ancient he might’ve been, but his mind was still sharp and his body still functioned well enough to get him to and from his office at HQ, which was far more than could be said for some people less than half his age.

Knowing and liking Archer as he did didn’t stop a little thrill of anticipation from running through Chris as he approached his office door to meet with the Admiral. Jonathan Archer didn’t ask to meet with too many people, especially not lowly captains who didn’t even have their own ships anymore.

“Admiral,” he said, standing at perfect attention in front of the desk, holding his breath unconsciously.

Archer smiled up at him through wizened eyes. “Chris Pike,” he said, his voice weather-beaten. “You look good, son. An atmosphere seems to treat you well.”

Chris smiled slightly and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Though if I may say so, not as well as the bridge of a starship, hmm?”

Chris blinked. “Admiral?”

“How are you liking it?” Archer changed the topic lightning fast. “Your post as Commander of Cadets?”

Chris swallowed, wondering idly if he was about to lose his job. “Quite well, sir.” The urge to break from attention and start chewing on his fingernails in anxiety was almost irresistible.

“Everyone else seems to like you in that position, too,” Archer said, casually considering the information on a PADD in front of him. “Even Rick Barnett, and you know how damn hard he is to please.”

Chris suppressed an unprofessional snort. “You’ll get no arguments from me, sir.”

Archer looked up at him again, his eyes fond. “Be honest, Pike. You have permission to speak freely. You miss the black like hell, don’t you?”

Pike looked at Archer, whose eyes were twinkling with an understanding borne of more than a century of being right. “Yes sir, I do,” Chris admitted.

Archer nodded. “I want to show you something.” He stood, leaning heavily on his cane, and ambled over to the powerwall, swiping away the reports from UFP News and whatever tabloid garbage he kept himself entertained with when the news reports got too grim. Swiping his fingers, he opened up a new file. A blueprint came up on the screen.

A blueprint of a sleek, _beautiful_ silver lady. Chris had never fallen in love so fast.

“Christopher Pike,” Archer said proudly, “Meet the Enterprise.”

Chris couldn’t help himself. He reached up and let his fingers touch the blueprints reverently. “Hello, Enterprise,” he whispered.

Archer smiled slyly. “Class I heavy cruiser. Twenty-one decks; crew complement of between five and seven hundred, depending on mission specifics. Maximum cruise of warp factor 8, able to handle short bursts up to warp 9.2 emergently. She’ll be our new flagship, ready to launch, we hope, around seven years from now.”

Chris was practically drooling. “She’s a pretty thing.”

“She is,” Archer confirmed. “We’d like to try something new with her, too.”

“What’s that?” Chris asked, still distracted by the shiny on the screen.

“A five-year mission.”

That got Chris’ attention. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say five _years?”_

Archer nodded. “The deepest of deep space. Making first contacts with species we don’t even know exist yet, offering branches of friendship, pushing the boundaries of what we know about science, welcoming new people into the fold, helping anybody we can along the way who needs it. This mission, and the Enterprise, are going to change the Federation. They’re going to change the galaxy.”

Chris could hear his heartbeat in his ears, his fingertips caressing the blueprint on the screen with the newborn familiarity of a lover.

“We’re giving her to you, son.”

Chris turned to Archer. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “What?”

“When she’s ready to go up, in seven years,” Archer said, “you’ll be in the chair.”

Chris couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. “I…I don’t know what to say.” He reached out, tentatively took Archer’s leathered hand, and shook it. _“Thank you,_ Admiral,” he murmured.

Archer smiled. “Your service record speaks for itself, Captain,” he said. “You’ve earned this.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…and she won’t be done until ’58 at the earliest, she doesn’t even have a real skeleton yet, but _god,_ they’ve already picked _me_ to captain her, to go out and make all these little cracks in the galaxy and peek inside and find out what’s hiding in there and it’s everything Grandpa always talked about wanting to go back up and do and…” Chris swooned – actually swooned, like a teenage girl in a Victorian romance novel – and flopped back on the couch, grinning up at the ceiling.

Becca smiled, very softly, and rested her hand on Chris’. “I’m very, very happy for you, honey.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris woke up the next morning, Becca was already up and gone – to her editor’s office, Chris assumed. He took a leisurely walk to the transporter, then an even more leisurely walk to his office on the Academy grounds, stopping to pour himself some coffee on the way.

_The Enterprise is mine. The Enterprise is mine._

He was practically bouncing. Nothing could get him down today.

He sat at his desk, shot a comm to Phil asking him to meet him for lunch, and got to work on professor reviews from the last term.

1145 came and went and Phil didn’t show up in his office. But, again, nothing could get him down today.

1150 arrived and two messages came in on his terminal. Chris rolled his eyes, figuring one was from Phil apologizing for his tardiness, then opened them.

The first was from Becca.

_I should’ve listened. You’re meant to be out there. I’m sorry._

Chris’ brow furrowed. He opened the second email – from Considine, Collins, and Wick.

_Petition for divorce._

“I’m late, I know, I’m sorry, I’m an asshole…what?”

Chris’ shock prevented him from even noticing Phil was there.

“Chris, what is it, what’s wrong?”

Chris just sat, staring at his terminal. Phil came around his desk and read over his shoulder.

There was a solid minute of complete, stunned silence. Then Phil got out his comm.

“Philip Boyce to Starfleet Personnel Office. To whom am I speaking?”

“Lieutenant Commander DePaul here, sir.”

“DePaul, please make an official note that I am placing Captain Christopher Pike on indefinite medical leave beginning immediately. Please further notify anyone with whom he has a meeting scheduled within the next two weeks.”

“Aye, sir.”

Phil cut the comm, then adjusted the frequency and made another call. “Boyce to Craddock. Martha, I’ve had a family emergency; I’m gonna be out for a week or so. Can you spread the word?”

Then Phil came back around the desk and physically picked Chris out of his seat, marching him out of his office and down to the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” Chris asked in a voice that very much did not sound like his own.

“I don’t know, but somewhere that isn’t here,” Phil answered.

“Why?”

“Because you need to be somewhere that isn’t here.”

Chris blinked. “Phil, I’m gonna throw up.”

Phil steered them to a trash can as Chris retched. “I don’t blame you, pal.”


	13. Chapter 13

When reflecting on their impulsive Mexico trip years later, Chris and Phil would both admit that they would’ve gotten roughly the same results by staying in San Francisco and beating their livers with sticks.

As soon as the shuttle touched down, they started getting day drunk. By evening, their blood was at least seventy percent tequila, and everything was _just fine._ What divorce? Becca who? Someone offered Chris a pill of some kind, then another, and the damnedest thing was, he didn’t turn them down. His remaining functional brain cells thought that Phil ought to be appalled at the health risks he was taking, but Phil seemed to have left his medical degree at home in favor of allowing his best friend to numb the pain as only recreational pharmaceuticals really can.

On the second day, Chris slept with a woman whose name he didn’t know, because whatever the hell he had in his system thought it was a great idea. But sex did not induce the same cloud of numb that drugs and booze did; in fact, it just reminded him painfully of Becca, whose name he _did_ know, every syllable, and who certainly knew what he liked better than this woman did, and who smelled like jasmine, not sweat and alcohol – or maybe that was him, he couldn’t tell. That made him cry and then throw up, which was a major turn off for – whatever her name was.

Chris still has no idea how he managed to find Phil, or how Phil found him, or however it happened, but Phil took him back to their motel and put him to bed.

On day three, Chris woke up with the sun, feeling oddly sober from both chemical and emotional perspectives. He pushed himself into a seated position as quietly as he could – Phil was still curled in the fetal position in the adjacent bed – and let himself think the thoughts that had wormed their way in under the abuse his body had taken.

There were fewer thoughts about Becca herself than he’d anticipated and far more thoughts about himself.

Thoughts about what kind of man he actually was. Because he’d always thought – _hoped_ – that he’d turned out to be fundamentally good. But if that was true…

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Phil said. Chris turned; Phil’s eyes were still closed, but he stretched, propped himself up on one elbow, and then opened them. He had a look on his face like he’d expected this – Chris’ inevitable crash. “What’s on your mind?”

Chris tried to find a better way to phrase it, then gave up and blurted, “Do you think I’m like my mother?”

Phil frowned. “I don’t understand the question.”

“I know I’m intelligent,” Chris said. “I know I’m a competent officer. I take a lot of pride in what I do. A _lot_ of pride.”

“I know you do,” Phil interjected gently.

“But,” Chris continued, “I’m…I don’t … _get_ relationships.” Chris paused, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “I can get in just fine, sure, and I can save face for a while, when I first start out with somebody; but then the real me comes out, and I’m awkward and aloof and lazy and anxious and selfish and I wanna run away back into space, and I just…” Chris raked a hand through his hair, aware that he was rambling. “I just wonder if…if I got something from her. I can do my job, I can do anything they ask when I know the expectations, but I feel like…maybe I’m just socially broken. Intimately broken.”

“You’re wondering if you inherited her mental illness?” Phil clarified. Chris nodded. Phil rubbed his eyes and shifted position on his bed.

“I’m an ob/gyn, not a psychiatrist,” Phil started, “but if you’re talking to me as a doctor, then my answer would have to be no. You’re not like your mother. You’ve told me what your life was like before she went to the hospital. Her being sick didn’t just cause her marriage to break down; it prevented her from caring for her child, or holding down a job, or having any kind of a functional lifestyle, even partially.”

Chris sighed – it was all true, but it still stung to hear it.

“As far as I can tell,” Phil continued, “and for that matter, as far as Starfleet can tell, that’s not the case with you. You function. You function at a way higher level than most of the brass, at that. Why do you think they’re giving you their baby? It’s because they trust you. They know you’re a good man who doesn’t let people down.”

Chris shook his head, pinching a section of the duvet between his fingers. His voice was very small when he spoke. “Then why is this happening again?” He looked back up at Phil. “I’m getting ready to be divorced – _again._ You say I’m a good man, but _two_ good women didn’t want to be married to me anymore. Do you know how humiliating that is? Do you know how embarrassed I am?”

“I know,” Phil soothed, “I know.”

“I just…” Chris took a deep breath. “If there were something _wrong_ with me, some chemical reason that this keeps happening to me…maybe it could be fixed.”

Phil shook his head. “You’re trying to fix something that isn’t broken,” he said gently. Chris opened his mouth to contradict him, but Phil kept talking. “Yes, okay? Yes. Siobhan and Becca are both good women, and they both loved you. But they also wanted you to become a person you weren’t. Siobhan knew you didn’t want children before she married you, but she married you anyway, hoping you’d change your mind; and when you didn’t, she bailed. Becca knew how important your career was to you and that you were born to be up in the black; she thought she could handle it, but she couldn’t, and she dangled the carrot that she might do better with it after a few years to get used to the idea. Then, when you got this shiny new opportunity, she saw it as a threat to her and ran away. That doesn’t sound like a character defect in _you,_ Chris. They didn’t get it, either of them. They didn’t understand that those changes that they wanted from you weren’t the minor things they assumed them to be, that they couldn’t get those things _and_ the guy with the dimples and the witty comebacks and all the things they fell for when they met you. The things they wanted from you were things that would alter the makeup of what makes you Chris Pike. Things you are at your core, things that are impossible to separate from the rest of yourself.”

Chris looked at Phil hard and felt warmth spreading under his heart. Phil broke eye contact and looked down at his hands.

“I don’t think you’re mentally ill, Chris. I think you’re stubbornly, _wonderfully_ persistent in the person that you are and in what’s important to you. It makes you a good officer, and a good friend, and a good man.”

Chris smiled, the warm feeling getting delightedly stronger. “It’s brought me a hell of a lot of bad luck.”

Phil looked back up at Chris and smiled sadly back at him. “I can’t argue with that. But I don’t want you thinking you’re a bad person for this. You're not. And Siobhan’s not. Even Becca’s not, even though I’m not exactly president of her fan club right now. They’re just mismatches for you, Chris, not hallmarks of you being a bad person.”

Chris leaned back against his pillows, watching the shadows as they filtered in through the window and cast long shapes on the ceiling. “You know,” he said suddenly, “it occurs to me that you hold the record for both the longest and healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.”

Chris heard Phil exhale steadily in the bed next to his. “It’s been a privilege, sweetheart.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris let Becca keep the Sacramento house. Phil and Erin helped him pack up his things while Becca was at her parents’ house, and he moved back into ‘Fleet officer housing. He told Archer he’d stay on as Commander of Cadets until the Enterprise was ready for launch, years from now. It wasn’t like he had anything else to occupy his time.

So Chris filled his days with paperwork – disciplinary actions, commendations, commissions to new ranks, aptitude test reviews, and a slew of other fancy words and statistics. He and Phil spent pretty much every night that Phil wasn’t on call in one of their apartments, talking, making dinner, watching holovids.

Chris’ least favorite time of day rapidly became the overnight hours, when he was supposed to be sleeping, because unless Phil was there for the night, Chris was alone with his thoughts in those hours, without distractions, and he hated his thoughts a little bit.

That particular evening was calm. Phil came over after his shift, still in medical garb and carrying his medkit; they ordered pizza and had beers and watched a mindless holo and indulged in general sloth. Phil snorted at something, then reached over Chris to grab another slice of pizza, and it happened.

The mental image just walked into Chris’ head, vivid, fully formed, and _completely_ not allowed.

_I could lean over and kiss the breath out of him right now._

The thought sat in his mind for a solid thirty seconds before every single electrical impulse in Chris’ entire body directed itself to whatever region of his brain that thought had called home and started screaming, _what the fuck?_

Annoyingly, the image _wouldn’t go away,_ and it was doing stupid, palpitating things to Chris’ heart. Chris holding Phil’s chin, threading his fingers through Phil’s hair, bumping his nose to Phil’s, tasting Phil, smelling Phil, Phil, Phil, _Phil._

“Are you okay?”

Chris shook himself and realized he’d been staring. “Fine,” he eked out, then cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he repeated, standing, his legs shaking a little. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

“Isn’t the one in your hand full?”

Chris ignored him. He went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face, reluctantly meeting his gaze in the reflection from the window above the sink.

 _This is Phil,_ he told himself, his mental voice speaking to him through gritted teeth. _You do not have a thing for Phil. Get your shit together. You are forty-three years old. Fucking act like it._

The thing was, though, as much as Chris felt like he’d just been slammed into by a shuttle at warp three, he also felt strangely… _normal._ As if his body was saying to him, _duh._ As if feelings for Phil had been building in him like snowfall out a window, falling gently, silently, steadily accumulating and covering Chris’ whole world without him ever even looking up to see it…until he _did,_ and realized in a hectic rush that his entire mental landscape was blanketed with thick layers of tenderness, of affection that reached far beyond friendship or fraternity.

It was beautiful and serene at the same time that it was chaotic and panic-inducing, and it made Chris severely dizzy.

He took a moment to compose himself before he came back out into the living room, perfectly confident that he looked normal.

“Seriously, you look like hell,” Phil said.

Well, thinking he didn’t look like a person in crisis was a nice fantasy while it lasted.

“You getting sick?” Phil put his hand out to touch Chris’ forehead as if checking for a fever. Tingles spread from the spot Phil touched him through his entire body.

Phil had done this countless times before when Chris was in various states of injury. It had _definitely_ never provoked that response.

“No, I’m fine,” Chris assured Phil, hoping against hope that he was, actually, getting sick. _Maybe that would explain it._

A few oddly tense hours later, Phil fell asleep on Chris’ couch. It was hardly an uncommon occurrence, but now, it gave Chris a chance to look at Phil – really _look_ at him.

He looked…like Phil. Regular, normal best friend Phil. Calm, serene, gentle, passionate Phil, with the dimple in his left cheek and the freckle at the bend of his right earlobe, whose hair had long since gone gray but stayed as thick and fluttery as the day Chris met him, who snuffled in his sleep and chastised Chris about how much sugar he put in his coffee and whistled in the kitchen and thought nothing of going to jail for something he believed in and talked about missing snow every single winter without fail and ate only blueberry syrup, not maple, and loved the smell of lilacs and still used his hands to diagnose a fever and was a pacifist but could throw a hell of a punch when he had to and could never shave quite as close as he liked and and and…

_Jesus._

Chris tiptoed over to Phil’s medkit, resting in the armchair, and flipped the switches. He pulled out the medical tricorder and scanned himself. _I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I_ have _to be running a fever._

The tricorder pronounced Chris in perfect health.

Phil snuffled in his sleep.

“Oh no.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sun was too goddamn bright streaming through the blinds. Chris knew he really should’ve dug deeper into his Academy credit account and splurged on a hotel that at least polarized their windows, but dammit, it had been _late_ and he had been _tired_ and if he had had to pass by one more shitty roadside diner on the highway he would have completely _lost his damn mind._

So he’d stopped at the nearest motel, a cheapskate place, and now deeply regretted the decision. Go figure.

It had been a fairly fruitful recruitment trip to the Midwest. The ‘Fleet had sent him out with a small parade of particularly high-achieving students to help Chris promote the idea of _yes, children, you too can train to go into space while wearing an unflattering red jumpsuit!_ It had worked, too; Chris had culled sign-ups from Kansas to Michigan and was feeling rather smug about it. 

Showering, shaving, and brushing the hell out of his teeth (how did he always, always wake up feeling like something had died in his mouth overnight, no matter how much attention he paid to his oral hygiene?), Chris now sought out one of those shitty roadside diners, needing a cup of coffee and needing it badly. He looked at the plates on the cars outside to orient himself to where exactly he was – _oh right, Minnesota, just south of Rochester_ – and got on the road heading south, stopping at the first place he saw.

It looked…well, exactly as desolate as a shitty roadside diner in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota, would be expected to look. Complete with the chalkboard of cheap specials, the waitress snapping her gum behind the register, and the guy hunched over himself at the counter, obviously nursing a doozy of a hangover.

Chris walked up to the counter and ordered himself a coffee before casting a glance to Hungover Guy. “One for this guy, too,” he said, handing over his credits before he turned to the guy. “You look like you could use it.”

“Thank you, sir,” the guy groused, in a distinctly southern accent. Chris nodded at him, then caught the fading indent of a wedding ring on the guy’s left ring finger. _Ah._

Their coffees arrived. Hungover Guy immediately sipped his. Chris grabbed a couple packets of sugar and gestured to the guy’s left hand. “Give it six months and it won’t feel so light anymore.”

Hungover Guy looked up at Chris, and _good god, guy, you’re a mess, aren’t you?_ The guy snickered darkly. “He said authoritatively,” he intoned.

Chris inclined his head in acknowledgement, then took a sip of his coffee. “Well, you’re clearly not from Minnesota; what are you doing here?”

“Job interview,” Hungover Guy said lowly, taking a thorough swig of his coffee. “Mayo.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“A surgeon,” the guy answered, thumbing the indent of his erstwhile wedding ring. “My ex-wife kinda ran me out of my job at Atlanta Grace, so I went lookin’ as far away from her as I could, and…here I am.”

Chris stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee, fancying that he could hear Phil’s blood pressure ticking up as he did so. “You think you got the job?”

A shake of the head. “By the time I got up here, it was filled.”

Chris winced. “Dammit.” He sipped his coffee. “Well, what’ll you do now?”

Hungover Guy cradled his head in one hand and stared into his coffee cup. “Tryin’ to figure that out,” he replied. “I’m outta credits, reputation, and bright ideas.”

Chris raised his eyebrows just a tiny, tiny bit, because he knew an opening when he heard one. “Ever thought about Starfleet?”

Hungover Guy scoffed. “Not fucking likely, man. I’m aviophobic.”

Chris waved a dismissive hand. “Meh. Common misconception that you’ve gotta work in space. Plenty of positions on solid ground, especially for a doctor. A little bit of required travel in the Academy, but after that you can stay on terra firma.”

Jesus, at this point Chris just wanted the guy to take him up on the offer because he looked so damn _miserable,_ if for no other reason. “Well,” he conceded, “much as I think space is a goddamn death trap, it’s not like I’ve got much of anything keeping me on Earth now.” Chris looked at the guy with slightly raised eyebrows, and Hungover Guy’s slightly bloodshot eyes narrowed in understanding. “You’re a recruiter, aren’t you?”

“Among other things,” Chris replied breezily. “Shuttle’s leaving for San Francisco from Riverside, Iowa tomorrow morning.”

“Out of credits, remember? Riverside’s a four-hour drive; I got no way of gettin’ there.”

Chris had no clue what was drawing him to this guy, but he had a distinct feeling that he was going to regret it and regret it _bad_ if he left him here in Minnesota to rot. “I’m on my way down. You can hitch a ride with me.”

The guy looked down at his coffee, then up to Chris, considering the offer, and then nodded. They headed out of the diner, both of them wincing in the violent sunlight (the hungover one rather a bit more than Chris) and climbed into Chris’ rental car.

“I’m Chris Pike, by the way,” Chris introduced himself.

Hungover Guy took his hand, shaking it firmly despite his pallor. “McCoy. Leonard McCoy.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cadet Uhura, who, impressively, seemed to use her brain even when off-duty, let it slip to Chris that she and her fellow cadets were planning a “social gathering” the night before they headed back to San Francisco at the Warp Trail, a bar that neighbored the hotel in which they had a block of rooms. “Social gathering,” Chris inferred, was xenolinguist for “drunken debauchery and probably a not-insignificant amount of regrettable sex.” Which, whatever. So long as everybody was consenting and of age, no charges got pressed, and everybody was on the shuttle at 0800 tomorrow, Chris couldn’t have cared less what they got up to tonight.

He _started_ to care when the bartender commed him at nearly midnight and told him to come pick up his brood – “and bring whatever Disappointed Father look you throw at them to make them behave” – complete with the sound of breaking glass in the background.

Well, at least Chris was still in uniform.

Chris walked in to see Cadet Hendorff – or, as Chris privately referred to him, Problem Child #1 – beating the _ever-loving hell_ out of a blond kid in a leather jacket.

Cadet Uhura – again, using her brain, _I should try to get her on my ship_ – was yelling, trying to call Hendorff off. Hendorff seemed to conveniently not be hearing her. Several of his cohorts were behind him cheering him on, one holding his groin rather tenderly, another already sporting a whale of a black eye. Most of the cadets were just standing around, watching the fight unfold – which, honestly, is what pissed Chris off the most. _Didn’t we teach you better than to just stand by and watch when somebody’s getting hurt?_

Sticking his fingers in his mouth and channeling Vince Pike for all it was worth, Chris gave an almighty whistle that got every eye in the place on him.

Hendorff dropped the kid onto the table with a sickening _thud._

“Outside. All of you. _Now.”_

Someone said _yes sir_ as a sea of red started to file its way out of the bar. Chris approached the kid who’d taken the ass-beating, peering at him upside down.

“You all right, son?”

“You can whistle really loud, y’know that?”

Chris cocked his head sharply, feeling his eyes go a little bit wider.

_No. No fucking way._

Neon, electric blue looked back up at him.

_Can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t be._

Chris came around and lent the kid a hand to sit him upright. “Lemme go, uh…try to find some napkins to take care of… _that,”_ he gestured vaguely to the kid’s face and shirt.

The blue eyes blinked owlishly up at him. “C’n you get me another beer too?”

Chris looked at him for another second, then turned and went up to the bar to grab a handful of cocktail napkins and make nice with the owner, a surprisingly wiry looking guy.

“So, that’s the Fed’s best and brightest, huh?” he said flatly.

Chris shrugged. “So they tell me,” he tried to laugh off. “Listen, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this, not to mention how embarrassed.”

“Mmhmm,” the owner said, expression not changing a bit. “Who gets the bill for dealing with all this?”

Chris handed over his card. “Give my office a call tomorrow. My yeoman will give you the names of the involved cadets and their accounts will be properly debited for the damage.”

The owner took his card, looked at it for a moment, then shrugged. “Works for me.”

Chris started to make his way back, then stopped, unable to help himself.

“I’ve gotta ask – is that James Kirk?”

The owner nodded, returning to drying off a glass. “Jim’s in here more nights than he’s not.”

Chris blinked, then started to walk back to the table when he stopped midway, distracted by something on the floor that looked like an ID card. He picked it up, carefully brushing shards of glass off of it.

_Kirk, James Tiberius._

“I’ll be damned,” Chris murmured to himself, looking from the picture on the ID to the back of Jim’s head.

Chris leaned on the bar and pulled his PADD out from his jacket. He used the ID number on the card to pull up what data was public record on Jim. Born 2233.04, medical shuttle 37, space; residence: Riverside, Iowa; occupation: unemployed; blah blah blah…aptitude tests – 

_Holy shit._

Chris had been Commander of Cadets for quite a few years now. He was one of the main personnel responsible for looking over applications for admission to the Academy. As such, he’d seen a _lot_ of aptitude test scores before.

He’d _never_ seen ones like this.

Maybe, _maybe,_ Spock had been in this neighborhood. But he was _Vulcan._ And an _applicant._ Not a…well, professional barfly, or so it appeared. Yet Jim Kirk could wipe the floor with any of the cadets who’d been in this bar tonight.

It wasn’t just that they were _high,_ but that they were high and _diverse._ Kirk was apparently a polymath; in mathematics, physics, computer science, he tested ridiculously well, but also in literature, philosophy, life sciences, economics, history, three – no, four languages other than Standard…he appeared to be the rare person who not only knew a lot _about_ a lot, but could prove it.

There was also a criminal record section. A minor assault charge (later dropped), petty theft, a couple drunk and disorderlies, an interesting possession with intent one (Chris would’ve passed some judgment for that at one time, but then Mexico happened)…no jail time, aside from a few nights in the drunk tank. _Yet._

Chris looked back up at the back of Jim’s head. _George Kirk’s bright, brilliant kid is wasting away in Bumfuck Nowhere, Iowa. Something’s wrong with this picture._

He unzipped his jacket, slipped his PADD back into the inner pocket, and headed back over to the table, setting Jim’s ID, a cup of ice and a stack of napkins on the table. “Clean up with that,” he directed.

Jim picked up his head. “Where’s my beer?”

“Pretty sure you’ve had enough, Jim,” Chris mumbled.

Jim balled up two cocktail napkins and shoved them up his nose. _Attractive._ “How d’you know my name?”

Chris folded his arms. “I’m Captain Christopher Pike.”

To the untrained eye, it looked like Kirk had no reaction whatsoever to this information, and if Chris hadn’t been looking incredibly closely, it would absolutely have appeared that the name meant nothing to Kirk. As it was, though, Chris saw something very, very subtle shutter behind Kirk’s eyes, and he knew Kirk had placed him, even if he’d never say it.

Chris sat across from him and continued. “How’d you manage to piss off my cadets that much?”

Jim looked around, snagged a still-standing drink off a nearby table, and took a long swig of it. “It’s a gift,” he said with a sarcastic megawatt grin.

Chris shook his head. “Y’know, I couldn’t believe it when the bartender told me who you were.”

“Who am I, Captain Pike?” Jim asked patronizingly.

Chris didn’t take the bait. “Your father’s son.”

There went the rest of the shutter. Jim waved his glass vaguely behind him. “Can I get another one?” he called to the bar.

“For my dissertation I was assigned the USS Kelvin,” Chris continued. “Something I admired about your dad. He didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.”

Jim scoffed, examining the napkins from his nose carefully. “Sure learned his lesson.”

“Well, that depends on how you define winning. You’re here, aren’t you?”

A waitress materialized with a drink for Jim, who thanked her and then gave a sarcastic shrug to Chris.

“You know, that instinct to leap without looking? That was his nature, too. And in my opinion, it’s something Starfleet’s lost.”

Jim gave a sardonic chuckle. “Why are you talking to me, man?”

“Because I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor,” Chris answered smoothly. “Your aptitude tests are off the charts, so what is it? You like being the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest?”

Jim shrugged indifferently. “Maybe I love it.”

 _Nice try, kid._ “Look,” Chris began, “So your dad dies and you can settle for a less than ordinary life. But do you feel like you were meant for something better?” Chris paused significantly. “Something special?”

 _Because I think you are_ went unsaid.

“Enlist in Starfleet,” Chris finished.

 _“Enli – ”_ Jim couldn’t even finish the word before he was laughing in Chris’ face. “You guys must be way down on your recruiting quota for the month.”

“If you’re _half_ the man your father was, Jim, Starfleet could use you.” And yes, Chris was aware that it was very dirty play, invoking Jim’s father like that – but hell, if it got this kid out of Iowa, he could live with it. “You could be an officer in four years. You could have your _own ship_ in eight.” Chris pulled it back, just a little, to the more traditional recruitment speech. “You understand what the Federation is, don’t you? It’s _important._ It’s a peacekeeping and humanitarian armada – ”

“Are we done?” Jim asked flatly.

Chris’ heart sank a little, but he didn’t let it show. “I’m done,” he responded. Then, _just in case…_ “Riverside Shipyard. Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow, 0800.”

Jim raised his glass, and for just a moment, Chris couldn’t _stand_ it, couldn’t _stand_ the cruelty of this moment.

This was Jim Kirk, for god’s sake. The son of a man who paid the ultimate price to ensure the survival of hundreds of others. The grown-up version of the teenager on Tarsus IV, emaciated, terrified, full of grief, and putting his every bit of energy into helping other children survive. The grown-up version of the baby boy on Chris’ lap, grappling for his Starfleet insignia with sheer delight, like he was _made_ for it, like something in his cells – something beyond just DNA – was calling out for it.

Starfleet needed Jim, it was true; but it was truer that Jim needed Starfleet.

And suddenly, Chris knew the only way to get through to a kid like Jim.

He was going to have to present it as a challenge. A no-win scenario that he could inexplicably win. 

“You know, your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes,” Chris began softly. “He saved eight hundred lives. Including your mother’s. _And yours.”_

Jim looked down, licking his lips, a ghost of something that looked like _thoughtfulness_ on his face.

Chris went in for the kill.

_“I dare you to do better.”_

Chris turned on his heel and walked away.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At 0755 the following morning, Chris found himself standing outside the shuttle doors, questioning why he was waiting for something he knew wasn’t going to come and at the same time not _stopping_ waiting for that something.

He could admit to his own considerable disappointment that Jim Kirk was apparently going to keep languishing in Iowa until he was locked up or covered up. He was better than that. The only consolation Chris could find to give himself was that he’d tried – genuinely tried – to give the kid the life he deserved to have.

He’d turned to board the shuttle when he heard a rumbling behind him that emphatically did _not_ sound like any Starfleet-issue equipment he was familiar with. Turning back, he saw a motorcycle zipping through the complex, heading for the shuttle.

Chris did a double-take, and – yep, that was the leather jacket and bloodstained shirt, all right.

“Nice ride, man,” one of the maintenance techs said, wiping his brow as he passed.

Jim Kirk killed the engine and tossed the tech his keys. “It’s yours.”

The tech looked mildly alarmed, but Jim just walked on by, right up to Chris, smirking for all it was worth.

“Four years? I’ll do it in three.”

Chris watched his back as he boarded the shuttle, then shook his head, wondering exactly what the hell he’d just gotten himself into.


	14. Chapter 14

After they docked, Chris stayed behind to make sure his cadets and recruits got off safely, which afforded him the chance to see McCoy and Kirk getting off together. McCoy was a damn near Vulcan shade of green; Kirk had an arm threaded through McCoy’s, ushering him off the shuttle while babbling about something that was evidently engaging enough to keep McCoy’s attention.

Chris saw it immediately.

Kirk, the optimist, the one unafraid of conflict, the shiny-like-the-sun genius.

McCoy, the retreating, sarcastic, aggressively competent one who’d somehow gotten himself all tangled up in Kirk’s gravity.

_Holy shit. That’s the new Pike and Boyce. Right there._

As cadets got checked in and shuffled around for uniform fittings and course selection and completing demographic forms, an idea began to take shape in Chris’ head. A – dare he say it – _sneaky_ idea. Sneaky, but quite good, worth the trouble, and increasingly looking like _the right thing to do._

(It also meant Phil would be kept waiting in the parking lot to take him home, but…eh, he’d approve.)

Chris took a quick walk up to his office and brought up the files for James T. Kirk and Leonard H. McCoy. Yes, both had checked in. He looked at their housing arrangements. McCoy had been assigned a single, like Phil’s housing had been when Chris first met him – the lucky SOB; too bad it wasn’t to be – and Kirk was to be rooming with Cadet Gary Mitchell.

Chris smirked at the PADD, then said aloud, “Whoops!”, his fingers dancing around and officially assigning Kirk and McCoy as roommates.

It was a complete abuse of power, and it didn’t hurt Chris’ conscience _one whit._

He set the PADD back on his desk and gave a self-satisfied nod.

Phil was waiting by his car, smiling his usual serene smile as Chris walked up. Chris tried unsuccessfully to wish away the little bloom of exclamation points in his brain when Phil smiled and instead just smiled back, shouldering his bag into the trunk of the car.

“What kept you?” Phil asked.

“Oh, you know,” Chris said lightly, climbing into the passenger’s seat. “Had to make a dastardly underhanded political move to support the greater good.”

“Ah.” Phil nodded approvingly as he turned to back out of his spot. “Proud of you.”

“Knew you would be.”

“So how’d recruitment go?”

“Not terrible,” Chris answered. “I mean, some of these kids are probably gonna run for mama as soon as they catch sight of a phaser cannon, but that’s hardly new. And I’ve been surprised before.” Chris paused, looking out the window. “Oh, picked you up a surgeon, too.”

“For me? And I didn’t get you anything! Thank you Chrissy!”

Chris rolled his eyes affectionately. “Well, don’t thank me yet. By all accounts, McCoy’s pretty brilliant, but got a major fear of flying we’re gonna have to deal with.”

Several beats passed, during which Chris became aware that Phil had gone very quiet. He looked up; Phil was looking at the road, but his face was going through a _lot_ of emotions.

“What?”

“Not…not _Leonard_ McCoy?” Phil breathed, coasting to a stop at a red light.

“Yeah. Why? You know him?”

Phil gaped at Chris, his mouth working but no sound coming out, until the car behind them beeped at Phil to execute the damn turn already.

“Chris, Leonard McCoy is a _genius._ Holy shit. His trauma work is _famous._ He totally revolutionized neurosurgery; he invented a completely new neural grafting technique. He’s only twenty-eight and he’s already a goddamn _legend._ You _recruited_ him?!”

Chris chuckled. “If you were a teenage girl, you’d have a poster of him above your bed, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a fifty-year-old man and I’m damn tempted to put a poster of him above my bed.”

“No, that’s not creepy at all, Philip.”

“I regret nothing, Christopher.”

“You’ll never guess who else I brought back,” Chris said, seamlessly changing the subject.

“Who?”

“Picked George Kirk’s son up off the floor of a bar.”

Phil hit the brakes a little too hard. “You’re not serious.”

Chris just looked at Phil, communicating without words that _yes, I’m serious._

“You recruited the _Kelvin baby_ into _Starfleet?_ How the actual hell did you pull _that_ off?”

Chris studied his cuticles. “I may have brought up the Kelvin in my recruitment speech.”

There was a beat.

“Also that his father saved several hundred people.”

Another beat. Chris could hear Phil’s fingernails digging into the steering wheel as his knuckles tightened.

“And I maybe dared him to do better than his father.”

“Oh _Jesus,_ Chris,” Phil sighed, pulling into a spot in front of Chris’ apartment and killing the engine.

“It was the only way I was gonna get through to him,” Chris protested, pulling his bag out of the trunk of the car. “The kid’s a genius, Phil. I haven’t seen aptitude records like that since we admitted Spock to the Academy. Unfortunately, his arrest record was equally impressive. My standard issue material wasn’t cutting it, so I…improvised.”

Phil gave him a long, flat look. “By invoking his _dead father?”_

Chris glared as he thumbed his apartment open, hit the lights, set his bag down, and sighed. “Yeah. Okay, you win. Dick move.” He collapsed in his armchair and sighed. “Can I at least get some credit for intentions? I mean…he’s better than that. He’s better than bar fights in the middle of nowhere. He’s got infinite potential; I just…I dunno. I couldn’t leave him there. Not just after what he’s been through, but knowing what he _could_ be if he got out of Iowa.” Chris massaged one temple and closed his eyes. “He’s gonna go stupidly far here, as long as the Academy powers that be let him.”

There was a long silence before Chris looked up with a frown of confusion. Phil was standing, arms folded, with a downright evil smirk on his face.

“Far be it for me to say, Captain Pike,” he said smugly, “but your tone is downright _paternal.”_

Chris narrowed his eyes, stood, and walked into the kitchen to grab something to eat. He cuffed Phil upside the head on his way.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris popped a bite-size pretzel into his mouth, kicked his feet up on his desk, and sighed.

He was so, _so_ bored.

Phil had left town that morning, on his way first to Maine for his niece Audrey’s wedding and then to Bajor as a guest at a midwifery conference. Erin was on Betazed with her wife, by all accounts big as a house and miserable in what amounted to a hot summer there. Number One was out of comm range in the dead middle of the Laurentian system.

And with that, Chris was out of friends.

So here he sat, in his office, having a leisurely lunch that largely involved staring at the walls around him.

Again. _Bored._

When his door chimed, he sat up briskly, sweeping some pretzel dust off his uniform before allowing entrance. There stood Jim Kirk, in his neatly pressed cadet reds, wearing no facial expression at all; counterbalanced by Commander Frome, who looked at once frazzled and weary.

Chris had the sudden insight that he’d probably be seeing a _lot_ of Kirk accompanied by a frazzled and weary higher-up in the coming years and resisted the urge to massage a temple.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain Pike,” Frome began, “but Cadet Kirk and I are running into some issues with his paperwork. Since we can’t work it out between the two of us, I figured I’d pass it upstairs to his academic advisor.” She handed the PADD over and Chris warily took it.

He’d never served as a cadet’s academic advisor before, but in Jim’s case, he felt compelled to. He’d been wondering just when the buyer’s remorse would kick in, and, well, here it was.

Chris scrolled through Jim’s demographic sheet, saw the gaps in question, and looked up to Jim, who stood at perfect parade rest.

“All right, Commander Frome; why don’t you give me a moment with the cadet here, hmm?”

Frome nodded politely. “Aye, sir.”

Once Frome had walked out, Chris nodded to the chair across his desk. “Sit.”

Jim sat.

“Okay, first things first,” Chris said lowly. “Medical.”

“I’m fine, I don’t need a – ” Jim began, but Chris cut him off.

“No physical, no PT; no PT, no space travel; if you can’t go up into the black, what the hell’s the point? Might as well pack your bags right now.” Chris folded his arms and rested them on the desk. “Look, I absolutely get why you’d prefer to avoid a physical and why you’d like that preference not made into an issue, but even I can’t get around this one.”

Jim looked off to the side and took a deep breath. His face looked blank.

“Listen, I’ve got an idea,” Chris said. “I can’t get you out of the physical requirement, but I _can_ stack the deck so you’re seeing somebody who’s already got a partial medical history on you.” Jim gave him a sharp look; Chris continued. “Phil Boyce. Staff surgeon at SFM; former senior medical officer, USS Vaughan.” Chris paused, watching the significance of that sentence dawn on Jim. “He’s also been my best friend for twenty-five years, give or take. Nobody’s more trustworthy than Phil.”

Jim swallowed audibly and looked at his hands.

“He’s out of town right now and he’ll be off-planet for about a week after that. I can arrange for him to see you when he gets back. Off-hours, if it’ll be easier on you.”

Jim looked up at Chris, thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

Chris nodded. “Now. Next of kin.”

Jim shook his head. “Don’t have one, don’t need one.”

“Nice try,” Chris responded.

Jim shot Chris a mild glare, then sighed. “Look,” he said reluctantly, “I only have one living relative left. I would prefer that this person not even know I signed up, let alone be my ‘in case of emergency’ person.”

“Your mother?” Chris clarified.

Jim sighed again. “We didn’t exactly part on good terms,” he said quietly, “and we haven’t spoken in quite a few years.”

Jim didn’t elaborate, but between Tarsus and the memory of the dazed woman he interviewed a couple decades ago, Chris could extrapolate why and how the relationship between Jim and Winona Kirk had tanked.

“Well,” Chris mumbled, breaking eye contact, “I know a thing or two about complicated relationships with mothers.”

There was a brief pause before Chris raised his head to speak again; Jim was looking at him curiously, but Chris didn’t pay it any mind.

“For Starfleet purposes, next of kin doesn’t have to be a tie of blood or marriage. It can just as easily be a friend or a partner. Except for the times I’ve been married, Phil’s always been mine.”

Jim blinked. “You were married?” he said, slightly incredulous.

“Twice. Badly.” Chris spit it out quickly before continuing. “Why not McCoy?”

Jim looked wary. “I don’t know if we’re that close yet.”

Chris cocked his head to the side, waiting for Jim to continue.

“Bones…he has some strong ideas about…y’know, family, ties, kin. I kinda don’t want to step on them.”

Chris let a beat fall. Then: _“Bones?”_

“His first name’s _Leonard,”_ Jim breathed incredulously. “Who the hell names their kid _Leonard_ in, like, the past three hundred years?”

Chris made a mental note to ask about _that_ later, but let it go for now, shaking his head bemusedly. “Okay, well, let’s compromise. List me as your next of kin.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You?”

Chris shrugged. “Until you feel comfortable putting somebody else in that role.”

_Until you feel comfortable putting McCoy in that role._

Jim nodded slowly. “Okay. Uh…thanks, Captain.”

“Don’t mention it,” Chris said, returning to the PADD in front of him. “Now. Let’s talk about academics.” Jim seemed to sigh a little in relief at the change in topic, but Chris’ brow furrowed as he pulled up Jim’s course map. “You’ve front-loaded the hell out of your schedule.”

“No, I haven’t,” Jim countered. “I mapped it all out so I’m getting an even amount of coursework every term so I’m done in three years.”

Chris gave Jim a placating look. “Do you realize how tough it’s going to be to finish this amount of coursework in that amount of time?”

Jim nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

“I’m not going to hold you to finishing in three years, son.”

Jim tilted his head to the side. “That wouldn’t make you much of an advisor, would it?” he asked neutrally. “Letting me skirt on my commitments?”

Chris raised an eyebrow.

“I said three years. I meant three years.” Jim nodded to Chris’ PADD. “Next topic.”

Chris looked at Jim for a moment longer, then looked down again. “Why command?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re down for command track,” Chris noted, looking back up at Jim. “Is that really the track you want?”

Jim looked at Chris as if he’d just sprouted an extra head. “Are you being serious right now? Of course it’s the track I want.”

“With your aptitude tests, you could have your pick of virtually any track, any department you like,” Chris said. “You could turn tactical upside down. Revolutionize the science division. Completely change the way we engineer starships for generations to come.”

“Why are you trying to talk me out of command?” Jim asked bluntly.

“I’m not,” Chris said, just as bluntly. “I’m trying to figure out if this is what you really want, or if this is another manifestation of you holding yourself up to the George Kirk yardstick.”

Jim’s face darkened a little, and a small part of Chris regretted his bluntness. Jim looked down at his hands, picking at his cuticles quietly. 

_“You’re_ the one who dared me to do better than he did,” he mumbled at last.

“I did,” Chris acknowledged. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to copy his example verbatim. Not if it’s not what _you_ want.” Chris paused. “I just want to make sure you know that you have choices, and that what you actually want _matters.”_

Jim was quiet for a moment, then looked up. There was a little glint in his eye. “Can you really see me doing anything other than commanding a starship?” he asked. “Think about it.”

Chris thought about it. “Okay,” he said, inclining his head. “Point.”

Jim sat back in his chair, smiling slightly. “I want command, sir.”

Chris nodded. “Command it is, then.”

Jim’s smile grew, and he looked around the room, narrowing his eyes on the little table next to the window.

“Is that a chess set?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were _supposed_ to be having one of their periodically scheduled academic advising sessions.

Chris and Jim _were,_ however, playing chess in Chris’ office.

Chris was looking at the board, contemplating his next move, when he heard a massive _crunch_ from the opposite side of the table. He looked up; Jim had just taken a huge bite of an apple.

“Thought you came here straight from your astrophysics class. Where the hell did you get an apple?”

Jim shoved his bite into one cheek, then talked with his mouth full. “Sweet talked Noor into sharing her lunch with me.”

_“Noor?!”_ Chris exclaimed.

“She’s cute,” Jim said mildly, shrugging. “Maybe I’ll ask her out.”

“You keep your goddamn mitts off my yeoman, son,” Chris said threateningly.

Jim smirked and took another bite of his apple. Chris made his move on the chess board. Jim looked at it and hummed approvingly. “You play really well. Who taught you?”

Chris let his lips curl into a smile. “My grandfather,” he answered. “Also taught me how to balance a chemical equation, navigate the stars without a computer, and gel my hair without looking like a dumbass.”

Jim smiled, still looking at the board. “Sounds like a cool guy.”

Chris sighed a little at the dull ache in his chest. “He was.”

Jim fiddled with his knight a little before making his move. “Wonder if my dad would’ve been like that with me.”

Chris’ eyes shot up to Jim. For the first time since Chris had met him, spots of color were appearing on Jim’s cheeks.

“I…have no idea why I said that out loud.” Chris heard him try to laugh, but it was strained.

Chris looked across at Jim and thought about it. George Kirk was a towering figure in the Federation, heroic and brave and noble and _dead._ His name still appeared as an inspirational figure on at least half of the Academy admissions essays that crossed Chris’ desk every year. George Kirk was Jim’s kin, true, but they’d never known one another, and judging by Chris’ trip to Iowa all those years ago, he doubted that Winona Kirk had the wherewithal to tell her son anything about his father except the heroic way that he died protecting them both.

Jim Kirk didn’t know his father in a context not colored by the Federation’s reverence or his mother’s grief.

The Federation knew George Kirk not as a person, but as an institution – and that was fine. Jim knew George Kirk not as a person, but as an institution – and that was not.

“Did you ever hear about the dance troupe on Syra VI?”

Jim looked up at Chris and frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “…can’t say as I have, no.”

Chris smirked. “The USS Mattingly made first contact with the Syra people when your dad was still a cadet doing his summer tour of duty. Syra culture places an incredibly high value on non-verbal artistic expression – paintings, sculpture, music, that sort of thing. Their major thing is dance, though. So the Mattingly’s crew was invited to watch a performance of a dance troupe during their negotiations for Federation membership. Apparently, your dad found it so profoundly moving that he started blubbering in the middle of the performance, right in front of this whole starship crew that he was trying so damn hard to impress.”

Jim’s eyes grew wide and he snorted out a laugh. “Are you serious?”

“It gets better,” Chris said, grinning. “His roommate caught him a couple days later trying out some of the Syra’s moves in the gym, wearing nothing but bright red Academy-issue gymnastic leggings.”

Jim outright _guffawed._

Chris chuckled. “I still don’t think it’s as good as him kissing Robau, though.”

Jim dropped his apple, his eyes growing round with delighted shock. _“Captain_ Robau?!”

Chris nodded. “It was First Contact Day the year before you were born. Apparently, the Kelvin crew could really throw a party, and the booze was flowing thick and heavy, and, well…” Chris pursed his lips and tried not to crack up completely. “I guess your dad couldn’t really hold his liquor, because he just leaned in and laid one on his poor CO. Your mom wasn’t drinking because they were trying for you then, but apparently she fell down laughing at the look on Robau’s face.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Jim moaned, laughing, burying his head in his hands.

Chris nudged his rook to a new spot, then casually said, “I also seem to recall a story about him strutting down the corridor in just his boxers at three in the morning when your mom thought she was in labor. Put on quite a show, apparently.”

Jim wiped tears of laughter away. _“Christ,_ Dad,” he muttered. Chris smiled across at Jim as the cadet moved a bishop. “I never…” Jim paused, then laughed a tiny laugh. “He was a _guy,_ wasn’t he? Just a guy.” He looked down at his lap. “I mean, I guess I knew that on some level, but…I dunno, all this time playing a game of _what would George Kirk do,_ and I just…” He trailed off.

Chris nodded. “The legend gets it partially right. He _was_ a hero. But self-sacrifice wasn’t the sum of his being. Everybody I talked to told me the same things about him: he was sweet, he was clumsy, he cried at sad movies, sometimes he did dumb shit. Part hero, mostly regular guy. I interviewed sixty-three survivors of the Kelvin while I was writing my dissertation; pretty much everybody had a story like that.” Chris paused, looking back to the board and lowering his voice. “Sixty-four, if I count you.”

Jim smiled, then looked up. “Wait. Me?”

Chris smiled at the memory. “You were there when I interviewed your mom.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You wouldn’t. You were only…what, nine or ten months old.” Chris felt his cheeks heat a little bit and couldn’t figure out why. “You sat in my lap, briefly.”

Jim’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I did?”

Chris nodded. “Your brother got into something – I’m not sure what – so your mom handed you over to me.”

Jim’s face went from surprised fondness to teasing lightning fast. “Was I cute?”

Chris looked at him flatly, but try as he might, he couldn’t keep affection from lacing his voice. “You kept pawing at the insignia on my collar, you little shit.” Chris moved his queen. “Checkmate.”

Jim just smiled softly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One day in late March, Phil commed Chris at the end of his shift with the words _I need a beer and I need it now._ Chris met him at O’Reilly’s; Phil hadn’t even changed out of his scrubs and looked a breed of exhausted that only a surgeon can really achieve. It made Chris want to take him home and put him to bed and…

_Ahem._

Well. Now Chris was just glad Phil wasn’t a telepath.

“Long day, Philip?” he asked sweetly.

Phil’s forehead hit the bar with a loud _thunk._ “I took an oath to save lives,” he groaned, “but I might have to kill one of my interns.” He looked up and turned to Chris, eyes wide and hopeful. “You’d help me hide the body, wouldn’t you?”

“Standard issue best friend duty,” Chris answered with a shrug. “You bring the body bag, I’ll bring the shovel.”

“God, I love you,” Phil breathed, sipping his beer.

A collection of neurons in Chris’ mind got way too excited by those words and apparently linked arms and did a small jig. Chris violently beat them all to death with the aforementioned shovel.

Phil nodded behind Chris. “Look.”

“What?” Chris asked, turning.

“The prodigal son. And he might need a hand.”

Chris shifted his head, view partially obscured by a partition, and saw what Phil meant. Jim was staring daggers at an upperclassman who gave off a distinct air of dickishness and looked…oddly familiar? Though Chris couldn’t quite place him.

“Finnegan, I’m _really_ not in the mood for your shit tonight, all right?” Jim was groaning.

“I feel sorry for you, Kirk,” the upperclassman – Finnegan, evidently – was saying loudly. “Got roped into a fine organization like Starfleet on the coattails of your dead daddy and whatever _other_ assets you had to offer…you don’t have a damn clue what you’re in for. And look at you now – now you don’t even have a friend to tell your troubles to.” He sniggered; Chris saw Jim’s fingers clench a little tighter around his glass. “What, did McCoy find out you’re blowing Pike, too?”

“Okay, that’s it,” Chris said, making his way over and announcing his presence by way of showing up right over Jim’s shoulder.

The sight of Finnegan’s face paling in a moment of _oh shit_ was worth the price of admission.

“Evening, Cadet,” Chris said mock-pleasantly. Finnegan opened his mouth to shoot another insult at Jim, but Chris broke his momentum. “Be advised, I was five feet away, my hearing’s just fine, and you’re on report.”

A vein of rage popped up in Finnegan’s forehead. It was _deeply_ satisfying. Jim was looking into his drink, a small smile curling his lips.

“Didn’t my dad punch you in the face once?” Finnegan snarled, and – _oh shit, that’s why you look familiar…_

“Actually, that was me, punching _your_ dad in the face,” Phil said pleasantly from behind Chris. “He,” he thumbed at Chris, “gave him a nice knee to the gonads. Which, now that I think of it, probably explains how you turned out the way you did.”

Jim kept his eyes on his glass, but pursed his lips _hard,_ eyes going wide.

“Be further advised that you should be thankful you’re on liberty right now,” Chris continued calmly, “because if you said something like that about a superior officer on Starfleet grounds, I’d bounce your ass out of the Academy so hard your teeth would rattle.”

“You can’t do that,” Finnegan blurted, turning unbecomingly red.

Chris put on his most dangerous command voice. “Try me.”

Finnegan glared at all three of them, gave a salute so sloppy that it probably counted as insubordination on its own, and made himself scarce.

There were a couple of beats where Chris, Phil, and Jim all looked at one another. Then, Phil spoke.

“Oh, what the hell, I’ll just say it: Chris, that last bit was _really_ hot.”

Jim snorted in Phil’s direction. “I was particularly fond of the _probably explains how you turned out the way you did,_ actually.”

Phil gave an exaggerated little bow with his bottle.

“Is this a pattern between you and what’s-his-face, or just a random act of asshattery on his part tonight?” Chris asked Jim.

Jim swirled the ice in his glass. “Finnegan’s just a prick,” he non-answered. He took a swallow. “Unfortunately, he’s also right.”

Chris’ eyes grew wide.

“Not about the blowing you part,” Jim rapidly and unnecessarily corrected, “about Bones.”

Chris looked back to Phil, who spent far more time with McCoy than Chris himself did. “You and Len have an argument?”

Jim just waved his hand dismissively, continuing to stare into his glass. “He was upset, and I just wanted to help him, but he said something about his right not to be mother-henned, and…” he trailed off, shrugging sadly. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does,” Phil said gently. Jim just shrugged again.

“Well,” Chris said, patting Jim on the shoulder. “You two are thick as thieves. I doubt anything could separate you and McCoy for that long.”

Jim blinked into his scotch, then squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. “Yeah.” His voice was uncharacteristically small.

Chris and Phil made eye contact over Jim’s head and wordlessly made the same diagnosis at the same time.

He’d seen it coming. He’d seen it coming right from the moment the two of them stepped off that shuttle and he thought of them as _the new Pike and Boyce_ and Chris realized all that came with that comparison. This was going to happen sooner or later, and apparently Jim went with _sooner,_ and it hurt Chris’ heart.

The tiny little alarm bells that existed in Chris’ mind just to periodically go off about _fatherly_ feelings got a little louder.

Jim pulled out some credits and tossed them on the bar. “I’m gonna go home,” he said quietly. “See if Bones has cooled off. Try and get him to talk to me. Thanks for the assist tonight.”

“Anytime,” Chris said.

“Night, Jim,” Phil called after him.

Chris and Phil leaned on the bar, watching Jim’s retreating back and not each other.

“That was enlightening,” Phil said dryly.

“Bet you a beer they’re together before they graduate,” Chris said.

Phil looked after Jim for a little longer, then shook his head.

Chris looked at him sharply. “What, seriously? You know those two; you can’t tell me you don’t see it coming from both sides.”

“Of course I see it; I’m not blind,” Phil said, looking down at the bar. “I just don’t think it’s gonna be that fast. They need more time.” Phil quirked his lips into an odd-looking smile. “Probably a _lot_ more time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Chris frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Phil looked up at Chris, held his gaze for just a moment, and then looked back to his drink. “Just a feeling.”


	15. Chapter 15

One of the parts of Chris’ job that he actually loved was getting to observe some classes. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but sometimes, when he had an afternoon free, he’d sit in the back of a tactics lecture, or watch cadets give xenoanthropology presentations. Or, on a day such as this, observing a hostage negotiation training sim. That Jim Kirk was a participant in the sim in question was purely coincidental to Chris’ choice to attend this particular session.

It was, all things considered, fairly elementary. A mock away team, in which Jim was playacting a security officer, was to make diplomatic first contact with a (holographic) alien delegation, which turned hostile when one hologram, while performing the alien equivalent of a handshake, “captured” the cadet who played the role of the captain. Simplistic, but effective at getting the cadets’ reflexes fine-tuned.

For the first few moments, the sim went as smoothly as predicted. The “captain” cadet, a tall, handsome upperclassman with light brown hair, executed the handshake-like move, and then found himself in a headlock. Defensive postures were assumed, phasers were drawn, et cetera. The instructor and his TA, from the holographic control room where Chris stood observing, nodded approvingly at one another. The cadets were performing admirably, Jim included.

Through the mic, Chris heard the upperclassman, still in a holographic headlock, tell his captor, “Release my crew and I’ll cooperate with anything you want.”

The hologram gave him a skin-crawling smile. _“Anything?”_ he hissed lasciviously.

And then, faster than Chris could see it, something broke in Jim.

He gave a ferocious yell, tossed his phaser aside, and charged the hologram full-boar, the upperclassman barely having adequate time to get out of Jim’s way after he was released. Jim put one hologram in a chokehold, kicking and kneeing at the others. It took Chris a second to hear what, exactly, Jim was screaming – but then.

_“Sam! Sam, run! RUN!”_

The formerly-captured cadet looked on in a sort of fascinated horror, saying faintly, “My name is Ian.”

Sam. Sam. _Sam._

Chris’ heart started hammering. _Oh, no._

The instructor and his TA were staring dumbly through the observation window. Chris roughly shoved one to the side and danced his fingers over the controls to end the simulation. Looking back up, Chris saw the holograms disappear and the alien environment sim fade away into the holographic grid.

Jim looked around frantically, grabbing his phaser off the ground, then herding his fellow cadets back behind a stack of exercise mats in the corner, which created a kind of hidey-hole – perfect for concealing oneself. As the bewildered cadets looked on, Jim charged his phaser and stood at the mouth of the hiding place, eyes wild and defiant.

Above the voices of the instructor and his TA asking where he was going, Chris burst out of the observation room, ran down the stairs, and entered the holodeck.

“Jim?” he called, making his way over to the mats. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see anybody behind them. “Jim, it’s me.”

“Stay away!” Jim screamed. “Don’t come near them!”

He emerged from his hiding place, a phaser pointed directly at Chris, an almost exact parody of his stance ten years ago. Chris swallowed, putting his hands up.

“Jim. Do you know where you are right now?”

Jim snarled. _“You,”_ he growled. “You said you’d get them out of here. You said they’d be _safe._ You _lied to me,_ Commander. I won’t let you touch them!”

“Jim,” Chris tried again, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, “you’re having a flashback. Listen to me.” Chris took a tentative step forward, keeping his hands raised. “You’re on Earth, in San Francisco, at Starfleet Academy. You’re a cadet.” Step. “You’re twenty-three years old. Your kids are safe. You protected them and you got them out of there.” Step. “It’s okay. It’s _over.”_

Jim shook his head vigorously, not lowering his phaser. “I don’t believe you.”

Chris would’ve given his eyeteeth for Leonard McCoy and his psychology doctorate right now. Failing that, he experimented a little.

“Remember how you didn’t have shoes on that night you and I met? You were walking on the ground in bare feet, and it was kind of sandy, with pebbles in it. I remember thinking it must’ve hurt your feet. Jim, feel where your feet are right now. You have shoes on now. Can you feel them?” Step. Chris swallowed harshly against his own anxiety. “Remember how warm and humid it was when I found you that night? It’s cool in here. The environmental controls are on. I feel a little breeze. Do you feel it?”

Jim’s eyes were starting to dart around, just the tiniest bit – barely noticeable. Chris stuck with it.

“That phaser you’ve got in your hand – it’s got a manual charge on it. The one you pointed at me ten years ago was an automatic. Feel the charge switch under your thumb? Look at me,” Chris nodded to his hands, still up, “I’ve got another stripe on my sleeve. You’re right, I was a commander then, but I’m a captain now. See?”

Chris could see it. He could see Jim slowly, slowly starting to come back to himself, the more Chris talked. Almost like the real Jim was floating outside of his body all this time, and now he was starting to merge back into the physical Jim. Finally, without lowering the phaser, Jim said, in a very quiet voice, “Kodos is dead?”

Chris caught a couple of hushed whispers from the group of cadets behind the mats, but kept his eyes focused on Jim’s. He hadn’t wanted to blow Jim’s secret, hadn’t wanted to make it public knowledge that Jim had been on Tarsus – but Jim hadn’t afforded him much choice, asking that question.

“Yes, Jim,” Chris said gently. “Kodos is dead.”

Finally, _finally,_ Jim lowered the phaser, looking down at it as if just realizing it was there. Then, he raised his head back up; his eyes were wide, bright, and full of unshed tears.

“Chris?” He sounded like a child.

Chris nodded encouragingly. “Yeah, Jim. It’s me. It’s Chris.”

Then, like a house of cards, Jim’s entire expression crumpled. He crossed the few remaining feet between them and grabbed hold of Chris, sobbing, wailing into Chris’ arms.

Chris just held him – thinking after the fact to shoot a Disappointed Father look at the remaining cadets, who then quietly filed out of the holodeck as Jim collapsed to the floor, pulling Chris with him. Chris rocked him the way he hadn’t known how to all those years ago when he was handed the boy in Iowa, stroking his hair, murmuring to him.

“It’s okay, son. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.”

Somewhere, in the back of Chris’ brain, a voice that sounded a lot like Phil’s made a comment about fatherhood.

Somewhere else, closer to the front of Chris’ brain, he acknowledged that whatever guff Phil had been giving him about essentially being Jim’s father probably wasn’t all talk anymore.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris had two surprising documents waiting for him on his terminal Monday morning. The first was from a lawyer in Kern County, California, advising him that he was now, to his great shock, the owner of the Pike family home in Mojave.

The second was from his father.

_Your grandmother died in September,_ his note said. _She willed the house to me, but I neither need nor want it. Thought you might – you made better memories there anyway. Hope you’re well, son. – Dad_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Chris and Phil met up with Len and Jim at O’Reilly’s to drink a toast in her memory. Chris had no fond memories of Jackie Pike, but he did feel sorry that she was gone, especially since life seemed to bring her nothing but misery. It seemed somehow unfair.

As soon as the four of them arrived and ordered their drinks, Chris, Phil, and Len made their way to a booth in the back. Jim, on the other hand, stuck around the bar, flirting with a redhead. Len scowled at Jim’s back.

Phil nodded at Jim’s frame, then asked Len, “What’s Blondie up to?”

“What he does best,” Len groused, sipping his bourbon, “making an ass of himself.”

As Chris and Phil settled into the booth, Jim moved on to another candidate, turning on the charm.

“Not the most discriminating man I’ve ever met in my life,” Len muttered.

Phil shook his head. “Nah, that’s not it. He wants a meantime partner, that’s all.”

Chris leaned in, interested. He’d heard Phil use that phrase before.

Len frowned. “Meantime partner?”

Phil shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Someone to have fun with in the meantime, until he can have the person he wants.”

Something inscrutable prickled along Chris’ spine. Its analysis was interrupted when Jim turned and walked back to them, shaking his head.

“What, the baby blues didn’t work on her?” Len asked waspishly.

“Not into men,” Jim sighed, sinking into the booth heavily. “It’s a slow night.”

“Perhaps when one is hoping to score, one shouldn’t come to the bar with one’s academic advisor,” Len snorted.

Chris squinted a little bit. “Should I be offended by that?”

“Just drink,” Phil said, tapping his bottle to Chris’, then turning to Jim. “If you’re striking out so bad, you should take notes from this one.” To Chris’ _immense_ horror, Phil nodded in his direction. “The master of all flirtation.”

_“Phil.”_

“Really?” Jim sounded unaccountably delighted.

“Really,” Phil confirmed, completely ignoring the kick Chris just sent him under the table. “You should’ve seen him in Mexico, that time we – ”

Chris reached out and clapped a hand over Phil’s mouth. _“Thank you,_ Philip; that will be enough out of you.”

Jim turned the big blue eyes on Chris. “Demonstrate for me, please?”

Chris gave Jim a flat look, then turned to Len. “Please corral your roommate and don’t make me make it an order.”

Len just shook his head bemusedly. “Captain, if I had that kinda power over Jim Kirk, you really think I’d be wasting it here?”

“A demonstration? He’d be delighted to!” Phil clapped Chris hard on the shoulder; Chris turned to him with a hot glare of _I know where to hide your body where they’ll never find you._

“Please?” Jim asked, turning on the puppy dog eyes for all they were worth, and… _ah, shit._

Over by the bar, there was a woman around his age who was making eye contact with him. She was pretty in a way that would’ve been exactly Chris’ type, back when he was able to think about having a type that wasn’t Phil. So, heaving an overdramatic sigh, and against his better judgment, Chris started making his way out of the booth, kicking Phil none too gently on his way.

“Watch, gentlemen,” Phil said as Chris approached the woman at the bar, sounding for all the world like he was narrating a nature documentary. “He’s leaning on the bar, very casual, nothing fancy. She’s already interested, so he’s got a good head start. There we go; _now_ he’s pulling out every trick in his bag – crooked smile, dimples, bedroom eyes. Note the tone of voice, too – low, rich, kind of rumbling and soft.”

Phil’s voice kind of trailed off. Jim and Len made unsubtle eye contact behind his head. 

Len handed Phil a cocktail napkin. “Would you like a napkin to mop up your own puddle of drool there?”

Phil looked at Len impassively out of the corner of his eye. “The urge to make a comment about pots and kettles is almost more than I can bear.”

Jim shot a mildly alarmed look at Len, but was interrupted by Chris’ return to the table, the woman’s comm frequency scribbled on a piece of scrap paper from her purse.

Len looked impressed. Phil looked smug. Jim looked at Chris like he was some kind of god.

Chris sat in the booth, folded the piece of paper up, and flicked it at Phil. “You’re a horrible little person.”

Jim nudged Len. “Scoot. I wanna try.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Jim – ”

“Just let me emulate my mentor, would you?” Jim protested. Len’s sigh was Chris-quality in its heaviness and exasperation. The three men budged together in the booth to observe Jim’s flirtation experiment, and slowly, slowly, varying expressions of horror settled onto their faces.

Because Jim… _really_ needed to stick to his own material.

“Okay, _why_ does he sound like that?” Chris asked in a worried tone.

“I think he’s trying to imitate you,” Len supplied.

“He sounds like a Denobulan frog. I don’t sound like a Denobulan frog, do I?”

“No, dear, you don’t,” Phil said absently, patting Chris’ arm. “His eyebrows – no, Jim, no, what are you doing, son?”

“Is…is that him trying to smile?” Len asked, squinting. “Pretty sure I looked like that getting my school picture taken in the sixth grade.”

Chris snorted inelegantly and burst into laughter. Phil and Len followed shortly thereafter, and the three of them were crying into their drinks by the time Jim got back to their table.

“Why do I hang out with you people?” he muttered morosely, stealing Len’s bourbon and downing it in a single gulp.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

A pause.

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

Chris startled awake, a hand blindly reaching over in the dark and fumbling for his comm.

“Pike,” he grumbled, creaking his eyes open. _Three o’clock in the goddamn morning._

“Captain Pike, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Lieutenant Commander Karan, from Security.”

That woke Chris up. He blinked into the darkness.

“We have a cadet in custody who tells us he belongs to you.” Karan’s voice sounded mildly amused. “Kirk, it was?”

Chris wanted very badly to beat his head against a wall. “Oh god,” he mumbled. “Just…tell me there’s no property damage. Please.”

“No, no, nothing more than ‘you should see the other guy,’ fortunately,” Karan continued. “We do, however, need someone to come collect him.”

Chris paused. “And that would be me because…?”

“Er…you’re his next of kin, sir.”

“Whose dumb idea was that?” Chris shouted, flipping his covers back and searching blindly for his pants. “Mine. It was _my_ dumb idea. Goddammit.”

Karan used an admirable amount of restraint trying not to laugh, and still a little bit seeped through his voice. “Yes. Well. He’s in block four, when you arrive.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, very much,” Chris mumbled, flipping his comm closed and zipping up his fly before looking down at the stardate gleaming up at him from the comm.

_2257.04._

Well, hell. Today was Jim’s birthday. Also the anniversary of his father’s death.

Chris threw his civvies on the rest of the way, then blearily drove down to the holding cell. Karan was waiting for him.

“Sir,” he said politely, giving a salute.

Chris winced at the bright lights. “What’s the damage?”

“Strictly speaking, your boy threw the first punch, but by all accounts I heard, it was self-defense. The other cadet – Finnegan, I think? – he’s got a busted nose but is otherwise okay. Definitely no criminal charges forthcoming; they wouldn’t stick for shit. ‘Fleet discipline…well, that’s another matter.”

Chris heaved an enormous sigh, handing over his credit chip and feeling his retirement account lighten. As Karan led him down a hallway, the thought vaguely occurred to Chris that he was _damn sick_ of bailing the men he loved out of jail.

He actively did not pause to analyze that thought too closely.

The blue-gold-black blur that was Jim Kirk sat morosely behind a force field, nursing what appeared to be a rather tender black eye. He looked up at Chris and, to Chris’ tremendous schadenfreude, his entire face fell. “Oh no.”

Chris smirked at him dangerously. “Oh yeah.”

“Why didn’t they call Bones?” Jim said plaintively – whining unbecoming an officer, for sure.

“Because I’m your next of kin and this is Starfleet, genius. Get your jacket.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next forty-eight hours were spent trying to deal with the fallout.

After Chris unceremoniously dropped Jim back at his dorm, ordering a dazed and confused Len to babysit and ordering Jim to _stay the fuck put, I am not even close to kidding,_ he got to work on trying to untangle Jim from the mess he’d gotten himself into.

Finnegan had gone crying to SFPD, but after conversations with a few witnesses, they’d basically laughed him out of the precinct. Jim may have thrown the first punch, but Finnegan had goaded him into it, first with words and then with a few solid pushes, until Jim got full.

Unfortunately, Finnegan also went to Komack, who then went to Marcus, which, predictably, ended in Jim being charged with assault of a fellow officer.

Chris spent the rest of Jim’s birthday in Marcus’ office, trying to get the charges dropped or at least reduced. He pulled out all the stops: invoking witness statements from SFPD, leaning on the fact that it was the anniversary of the Kelvin attack and _how that must feel for the kid,_ how he’d been hounded about it all day and _we all have our breaking points, Admiral, I know you know that._

Marcus was not exactly known for his sympathetic capacity, even with Chris laying on the charm as thick as he could; finally, he just shrugged.

“Take it up with JAG,” Marcus said indifferently. “This is their ballgame, not mine. They wanna let your boy go, that’s their prerogative. Until they say so, though, there’s not much I can do.”

(There was plenty Marcus could do, and both he and Chris knew it.)

So, on January 5, Chris went to JAG. And sat. And waited. And rolled his neck. And cracked his back. And got up and made a running lap around the room, when he was too bored to stand it. Finally, when he was about to drop to the ground and start doing pushups to kill time, he was let into the JAG office, where he outlined the same facts that he had with Marcus.

They were largely unmoved, except by the witness testimonies from SFPD.

“All right, Captain, your point is made,” Huang, one of the JAG attorneys, said briskly. “We’ll go into deliberation and notify you and Cadet Kirk of our decision.” She smirked. “In the meantime, maybe go remind him of how lucky he is to have an advisor who’s willing to advocate for him so strongly, hmm?”

Chris smirked right back. “Oh, he’ll be reminded of this for quite a while.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was doing some work just after midnight, the remnants of his tomato soup going cold beside him, when his terminal chimed a new message alert from JAG. Jim, Komack, and Finnegan were all CC’ed.

The charges weren’t dropped, but Jim was assigned no punishment beyond six months of academic probation – which, frankly, was the best Chris could ask for.

His eyes flicked up to the date, and he snorted. “Happy birthday to me.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris had finally fallen asleep around 0400. He’d had a rough time sleeping lately, but at least this was a Saturday night into a Sunday morning; he could totally get away with sleeping till noon if he so desired. (And oh, he so desired.)

So the momentarily homicidal thoughts about _whoever the fuck_ was banging on his door and rousing him out of a sound sleep? Totally justifiable.

Phil knew his door code and wouldn’t have hesitated to barge in, so it wasn’t Phil. Whoever was actually on the other side of the door was going to pay, and pay _dearly._

Chris stomped out of his bedroom and out to his front room to find…Jim Kirk.

In civvies, with bedhead, looking terribly distressed.

“I fucked up,” Jim said by way of introduction.

Chris blinked at him. “Kirk. It’s…” He fumbled around, finally found his comm, and flipped it open. “It’s 0930 hours.” He turned his grimace back to Jim. “On a _Sunday.”_

Jim just kept on talking. “I fucked up. I fucked up bad and I don’t know how to fix it and I think I’m going insane and I need to talk to someone and I don’t know who else to go to and…”

Chris heaved a sigh and ushered the poor kid into his front room before he went and dropped of an aneurysm.

Jim slouched in Chris’ armchair and buried his head in his hands, rocking back and forth slightly. He opened his mouth like he was going to start speaking again, but Chris forestalled him with a wave of the hand.

“Not another word until I’ve been caffeinated,” Chris intoned darkly. “That’s not Chris to Jim; that’s Captain to Cadet. Got it?”

Jim nodded miserably. “Yes sir.”

Chris went to the kitchen, heated up some coffee, and stirred just enough sugar into it to make Phil’s _Chris is dietarily misbehaving_ radar go off all the way over at Medical, then went back out to the living room. Jim was still sitting there, staring forlornly at the ground. Chris sat on the couch and took a leisurely sip. _Hnnngh, that’s good._ He took another. And a third. He shut his eyes, relishing this moment of comparative ease, before reluctantly opening his eyes and sighing.

“All right. Tell me how you fucked up, son.”

Jim took a deep breath and then started talking very, very fast. “So I haven’t told you this – or anybody, actually – but I’ve been seeing somebody for the past couple of months. And I’m…I’m so crazy about this person. I’m so in love I feel stupid. And this…this person I’m seeing…is terrified of sex. Like, _really_ terrified. And understandably so, too; we’ve talked about it. And I’ve tried to be understanding and patient, see, because really, I know my reputation, but come on – you know me; you know that’s wildly exaggerated and that I am actually capable of controlling myself, because you know, it wouldn’t even be vaguely fun for me if it wasn’t fun for the person I was with, right? So we set up some boundaries, right, so my…my partner can get a little more comfortable with things, and these boundaries, they’re pretty conservative, but we’ve mutually agreed that we won’t cross them without talking about them first, because to do that would freak this person out, big time, and I don’t want that to happen; I only want people who feel comfortable and safe, so I’m trying to make this thing between us feel comfortable and safe, I’m trying really hard. But then this morning, I woke up, and my partner was giving me a blowjob, and was _completely_ freaking out, like I’ve never seen, and I got so fucking _mad_ because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go, we were supposed to talk about this stuff before we did anything so we could avoid total panic attacks and so we didn’t run the risk of backsliding like we’re probably going to do now. So I lost my temper and my partner’s a wreck and I know it’s more because of my reaction than it is because of whatever fear or anxiety the blowjob itself conjured up, and I know I fucked up and I want to fix it and I don’t know how to make this better and make it work and just… _help.”_

Chris just looked at Jim. He had many thoughts.

First, he really hoped that the look on his face properly conveyed his current emotional state, at the intersection of concerned, confused, and _ew._ Because frankly, that was far more detail than Chris ever, _ever_ needed to know about Jim Kirk’s sexual proclivities.

He also thought, for a brief and highly entertaining moment, what Phil, Gen, or either of his ex-wives would think about someone coming to Chris, of all the people in Federation space, for _relationship advice._

Privately, Chris also noted the awkward absence of pronouns in Jim’s diatribe and wondered for a moment if Jim thought Chris would disapprove or advise him differently if the person he was with wasn’t a woman. It was a ludicrous thought, because Chris had always kind of assumed that Jim’s repertoire was not limited by gender, and because Chris’ feelings for Phil were still a thing, and perhaps most relevantly, because Chris was not an asshole. The thought that Jim might fear Chris’ judgment of his sexual preferences…well, that smarted, more than a bit.

Also, he was getting a headache, and he couldn’t pin down if the culprit was the lack of sleep, the inadequate caffeine ingestion, or the doe-eyed toehead sitting across from him. Probably all three.

Chris was silent for a moment, bringing his hand up to scrub his face and then massage one of his temples. Then he spoke.

“All right, let me see if I’ve got this,” he said, and even to his own ears, he sounded so long-suffering it was almost amusing. “You got woken up this morning by a blowjob from someone you tell me you love, and it pissed you off so much that you ran halfway across campus to bang on my door – without comming first; thanks for that, by the way – at 0930 hours on a Sunday?”

Jim plowed right on. “But do you at least see my point, though? About him pushing himself too hard?”

_So it is a he,_ Chris thought to himself. _It better be Len. Oh god, Jim, it_ better _be Len…_

“Yeah, I do, Jim; but I also know this is way above my pay grade.” Chris paused and let out a sardonic huff of a chuckle. “Why the hell d’you think you and I are the only ones here right now?” He gestured around the otherwise empty apartment. “I don’t know how to make it work. I’ve tried. A couple of times. I’m not built for it.” Chris paused, thinking for a moment, and then shrugged. “Some people are prime numbers, son. Not good at compartmentalizing enough to give of themselves. I’m one of them.”

Something very, very subtle changed in the light behind Jim’s eyes – an acknowledgement, a recognition, an _oh._ And while Chris would never, ever be able to scientifically or psychologically explain why, in that moment, he suddenly knew with complete certainty _exactly_ who they were talking about here.

_It’s Len. It’s absolutely Len._

Something warm and happy pulled on his heart, because _you need each other you need each other no two people have ever needed each other like you need each other I’m so glad you have each other don’t fuck this up._

Chris took a sip of his coffee to conceal his smile before he spoke again. “Look, you’ve been trying to focus on keeping him not scared, right?” Jim nodded. “Did it ever occur to you that he _needs_ to be scared?”

Jim cocked his head. “What?”

“You know, it might feel that way in the moment, but fear’s not a negative thing,” Chris said gently. “It keeps us from taking unnecessary risks. You, of course, eat unnecessary risks for breakfast – ” Jim scoffed; Chris rolled his eyes slightly “ – but those of us who have our heads screwed on straight actually _avoid_ them. But sometimes fear gets too big for us to handle and it bleeds over into areas of our lives it shouldn’t. And when that happens, it’s good to know how to _not_ listen to fear.”

Jim laced his fingers together. “You’re saying I’m…what, being overprotective?”

Chris shrugged. “If that’s the vernacular you prefer, sure. You’re keeping him from feeling something that might be uncomfortable, but that he might need to feel in order to get where he needs to go.” He leaned back on the couch, looked at Jim carefully, and thought, _eh, fuck it; I’ll never have a kid of my own to embarrass like this._ “For example,” he said aloud, “your pal McCoy.”

Jim paled three shades. Chris bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering.

“He told me the day I recruited him that he was scared shitless of flying, right? It was pulling teeth trying to get him on the shuttle out of Iowa, let alone into standard orbit for a basic flight test. Spent most of the time puking, or shaking, or passing out, or trying to pretend I didn’t see the flask he kept nursing. And I sympathized with him, sure, but I also had enough faith in him to know he could move past it, no matter how uncomfortable it was. And, judging by his flight practicals, he did. But he damn sure wasn’t gonna get there by staying dirtside. He had to get up there and face his fear head on.”

Jim looked contemplative and solemn. “Yeah,” he murmured.

Chris sipped his coffee again. “You gonna go apologize to this guy, then?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans a few times before making his way toward the door. Then he turned.

It occurred to Chris in a rush how very _young_ Jim Kirk actually was.

“Captain… _Chris,”_ Jim said softly. “Thanks. Just…this meant a lot. Thanks.”

It occurred to Chris in a second rush how very _important_ Jim Kirk was – to the people he cared about, to the Federation, to Starfleet, to the galaxy at large.

To Chris himself.

He smiled and nodded his acknowledgement, before modifying an earlier thought.

_You’ll never have a kid of your own to encourage like this._

“Jim,” he said, his voice gentle, “remember what I said about me? Prime numbers?” Jim nodded. “I’ve got a feeling McCoy’s one, too.”

Jim’s mouth started working a little bit, but no sound came out.

“Just remember, they’re only divisible by themselves – _or_ by one. So be his one, and _don’t fuck it up.”_

Jim’s eyes were huge and shiny. “Yes sir,” he nearly whispered.

Chris nodded him out of the apartment, then went back and collapsed on his couch, sighing spectacularly, wondering if what he just said to Jim had even a kernel of truth to it.

_Prime numbers,_ he thought. _What a dumbass metaphor._

It fit, though. A prime number, divisible by only itself. Inseparable from its core traits. Unable to neatly participate in other equations. How was it Phil had put it to him in Mexico all those years ago? _Stubbornly, wonderfully persistent in the person that you are._ Yes, that was it.

A prime number is indivisible.

Unable to neatly compartmentalize.

Unable to give pieces of itself away without damaging itself.

Unable to transform without compromising its own integrity as an integer.

_Unable to make itself want children._

_Unable to make itself stay on Earth._

Stubborn, problematic, and not worth the arithmetic.

_…except with a one._

Dividing a prime number by one not only lets another number participate in the process – it also _leaves the prime number intact._

_So I just need a one,_ Chris thought to himself. _Simple. So simple I’ve got forty-seven years and two failed marriages under my belt to prove just how simple it is._

Chris grabbed his comm and sent a message to Phil. “Just had interesting meeting w/Kirk. Meet at O’Reilly’s after your shift.” He paused before sending the second bit, hoping the message would sink in. “This one’s on you, if you follow.”

He shut his comm with a _click,_ leaned his head back, and thought until he couldn’t anymore.


	16. Chapter 16

“Hoo boy.”

Chris heard Phil’s voice from somewhere on his right and turned. Yep, there he was, Commander Philip John Boyce, M.D., M.P.H., all thick haired and round faced and serene smiled and brilliant and funny and sweet and handsome and so, _so_ confusing. _That asshat._

“I believe our bet was for one beer, Christopher, so the other…” Phil counted quickly, _“…six_ are on you,” Phil said dryly, flagging down the bartender for his own drink.

Chris giggled, because it was funny, and also, he was _kinda_ drunk.

Phil raised his eyebrows, then clinked Chris’ bottle with his. “To Len and Jim?”

“Len and Jim,” Chris echoed. They sipped.

“So,” Phil began, “how together are they?”

Chris cocked his head to the side contemplatively, thumbing the label on his beer bottle. “Together enough for wake-up blowjobs, evidently.”

Phil’s eyes grew round and horrified. “Do I…do I _want_ to know how you know this?”

Chris giggled again. “No, no…Jim ambushed me at the apartment. He wanted advice.”

“Blowjob advice?”

Chris giggled yet again. Phil just sighed.

Chris focused his attention on peeling the label off his beer bottle without leaving any residue behind. “Those two got it together. Why the hell can’t I?”

“Uh oh. We’re about to get maudlin here, aren’t we?”

“It just made me think, that’s all. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Where’s my one? Why can’t I divide evenly?”

_“Why can’t you –_ okay. You know what, Chrissy? I’m gonna settle up our tabs and then take you home and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Chris nodded morosely. “Okay, Phil.”

Phil paid the tab (including Chris’ outstanding six beers) and helped Chris back to his apartment, where Chris flopped dramatically onto the couch without even turning on the lights.

“Ow,” Chris said flatly as his face nose was smushed on a cushion.

Phil flipped a switch to shed a little light on the subject, then encouraged Chris to scoot with his foot. “Budge over.”

Chris scrubbed his face and sighed, deep and heavy. Phil tugged his sleeve. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

Chris was silent for a moment. Then, in a whining tone, “I need a girlfriend.”

Phil gave him an unimpressed stare. “I mean, I guess it has been a while – ”

“But I don’t even _want_ a girlfriend.”

“Well, okay, if you don’t _want_ one then you definitely don’t _need_ one, so – ”

“But if I _had_ one then I wouldn’t _feel_ all this _weird shit,_ or maybe I would but I just wouldn’t notice it, and I just – ”

“Chris, honestly, pal, I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about; could you just – ”

“I wanna kiss _you._ Why the hell do I want to kiss _you?”_

The room got very, very quiet all of a sudden.

Phil had a little crease between his eyebrows that was goddamn adorable; Chris wanted irresistibly to kiss it away and hated himself for thinking it. “You’re _terrifically_ drunk, Chris.”

“’m really not.” (He really _was,_ just not about this.)

Phil put his stern voice on. “Christopher…”

“It’s just so _easy_ with you,” Chris babbled. “We just…we know one another, right? Inside out and backwards. We’ve been living in each other’s pockets for thirty years. You know all my dirty laundry and character flaws and weird shit, like being married to my job or acquiring pseudo-sons accidentally; and I know yours, like your…I dunno…how you burn the bacon in the mornings, or your tendency to get arrested. And I know, I know, I’m supposed to be straight, but maybe…maybe I’m not, not really, or just less so than I thought, or maybe it’s conditional, or maybe I’ve just been lying to myself for forty-seven years, I don’t fucking know, and…” Chris suddenly looked up at Phil, horrified, as if realizing what he was saying; Phil’s mouth was just slightly open, his eyes round and soft and heartbreakingly blue. “Oh, god. Oh _god,_ no, why did I say it, _why did I fucking say it, it was going fine!”_ Chris buried his head in his hands and started muttering. “It was going fine, Chris, and then you start saying shit like this, and you completely fuck up the one relationship that actually _matters;_ this is why we do not talk out loud about wanting to kiss your best friend, dammit; do not – ”

“Oh, _do_ shut up,” Phil interrupted loudly, and then he kissed him, full on the lips.

Well. Chris had never been kissed like _that_ before.

Phil’s hand was curling around the back of Chris’ neck, stroking the fine, close-cropped hairs there; his thumb was up stroking Chris’ cheek, brushing that spot right behind his earlobe that drove him crazy. His lips were warm, soft, a little chapped on the bottom; he tasted like cheap beer and leftover cinnamon toothpaste and something Chris could only call _Phil._

When they broke apart, Chris just looked at Phil, eyes wide and _open,_ suddenly feeling _far_ more sober. Phil, on the other hand, didn’t look up; his eyes fluttered open, he stared at Chris’ lips for just a moment, and then looked down, away.

It took Chris a moment to find the word for how Phil looked, but when he did, his heart seized up a little. Phil looked _vulnerable._

In all the dozens – hundreds – of situations they’d gotten into together over the years, he’d never seen _vulnerability_ on Phil’s face.

“Phil?” Chris ventured.

Phil gave a tiny smile and a short, forced laugh. “You left an open door,” he said in the tiniest of voices. “Didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance again. Just…had to.” He looked up at Chris, and the look on his face made thirty years of puzzle pieces suddenly fall into place with a resounding _click._

“Are you in love with me?” Chris asked. His voice was barely over a whisper, and there was a heartbeat in it.

Phil’s smile grew slightly, and he laughed again, though still with this overwhelming tone of _needscaredhurtpleasestay_ lacing it. He grabbed one of Chris’ hands and held it, gently stroking up and down his fingers.

“Oh, Christopher,” he sighed gently.

Chris licked his lips, still tasting _cinnamon-beer-Phil_ on them. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” Phil replied immediately.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Phil gave him a Look – a Look that, to Chris, signified the most important thing of all, which was that no matter what else, they were still Chris-and-Phil. “You think you were the only one who thought you were straight?”

Chris gaped at Phil, thirty years of memory assaulting him in a rush. Phil, babysitting Chris after Sam cheated on him. Phil, standing up next to Chris as he married Siobhan. Phil, actually marrying Chris to Becca. Phil, calm, collected, and supportive when everything happened with Gen. Phil, having no reason whatsoever to believe he had any shot in hell with Chris.

_Phil, taking him to Mexico. Phil, taking him to Mojave, helping him scatter his mother. Phil, lending Chris his shoulder to cry on when Eddie Salazar was killed. Phil, in that damp little holding cell on Zawjar, singing “Happy Birthday” with him. Phil, mending Chris’ plasma burns and hangovers and lacerated livers and cracked skulls and broken hearts, over and over and over again._

Phil.

Always, always there. The warm, endlessly supportive, beautiful universal constant.

Who quietly and unobtrusively let Chris live his life, even when the choices he made broke Phil’s heart to bits.

The one person who never tried to change him.

_The one._

_Chris’ one._

Shaky and uncertain as a teenager, Chris lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair from Phil’s forehead, running his finger down and cupping his jaw, putting the pad of his thumb directly over Phil’s lips.

“Oh, Phil, I’ve put you through hell, haven’t I?” he murmured.

Phil blinked up at him, eyes wide and blue. “A little bit,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” Chris murmured. “I’m so sorry it took me so long.”

And he kissed Phil again, harder this time, more full-bodied. Chris wrapped his arms around Phil and pulled them closer together on the couch, running one hand through Phil’s hair and the other down his back. Teeth clacked and noses bumped. Neither of them complained.

When they came up for air, Chris asked, “So, what happens now?”

Phil couldn’t keep his eyes off Chris. He had an expression of the purest, deepest joy on his face, and it made something warm and tender bubble up in Chris’ belly. “We should probably talk more about this,” Phil breathed. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Chris nodded.

“But that can wait until we’re both a hundred percent sober, can’t it?” Phil asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Absolutely,” Chris answered.

Phil smiled delightedly. “Great. Wanna make out some more?”

“Hell yes.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil and Chris apparently regressed to a couple of teenage boys that night, making out on Chris’ couch and giggling like idiots until one of them (neither knew who) said “you sleepy?” and the other said “mmm” and then they fell asleep in an inglorious (but also glorious) heap.

The next morning, Chris woke first. Phil had his head pillowed on Chris’ chest, and he was snuffling in his sleep.

_That happened._

Chris ran his fingers through Phil’s hair, fine like gossamer but so abundant it looked thick and full on his head. Phil stirred, rubbing his face on Chris’ chest, before stopping and looking up with big, bleary blue eyes.

“Hey,” Chris said, smiling.

Phil sat up a little bit. “Hey.” He swallowed audibly. “You sober?”

Chris nodded. “Little hungover. Not bad.”

Phil pursed his lips anxiously. “D’you still…” His voice trailed off as he vaguely gestured between them.

Chris’ smile grew. He nodded. “Oh yeah.”

Phil scooted up, kissed Chris soundly on the mouth (morning breath be damned), then smacked him in the chest. “How _dare_ you make me wait for thirty years. Pain in my ass.”

An hour later, they were both in uniform. Phil was brushing his teeth and Chris was having a last minute cup of coffee when the door chimed. Jim stood there, looking far less anxious and far more bushy-tailed than Chris had seen him yesterday.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced – ” Jim began.

“Again,” Chris interjected.

Jim looked appropriately contrite. “…again. I just wanted to return the Enterprise’s isolinear specs you lent me.” He handed over a couple of PADDs, then smiled over Chris’ shoulder. “Phil, hi!”

“Ah, the prodigal son!” Phil said delightedly.

“Don’t think I won’t smack you,” Chris replied cheerfully.

“I’ve got to run,” Phil said quickly, grabbing his medkit and making for the door. “See you later.”

“Have a good day,” Chris said, and then, as natural as breathing, he kissed Phil as he breezed out the door.

Jim went still in Chris’ peripheral vision.

Phil patted Jim’s shoulder as he passed, and then he was on his way out. Chris looked up after the door had slid closed; Jim’s jaw was on the floor, his eyes hugely round, his head cocked to the side like a confused puppy.

Chris went to get more coffee. Jim followed wordlessly, watching Chris’ movements, still visibly gaping.

Finally, Chris looked up at him. _“What?”_ he demanded.

Jim said nothing. He just raised his eyebrows at Chris, then nodded in the general direction of the front door, where he’d seen Chris and Phil kiss.

Chris rolled his eyes and stirred more sugar into his coffee as Jim continued to bug his eyes out at him. Then, unable to stop himself, a soft, purely contented smile began to curl itself on his lips.

When he looked at Jim in his periphery, Chris saw a similar smile beginning on him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim stood at parade rest in front of Chris’ desk, clearly using every ounce of restraint in his body to keep from speaking in deference to Chris’ higher rank.

Chris tossed his hands up. “Here we are again.” He shook his head, lowering his gaze back to his desk. “I’m getting tired of having this conversation with you, Jim.”

“Permission to speak freely.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to remember a time when Jim had asked that. _Could it be…Jim Kirk is learning the system?_ “Granted.”

Jim made eye contact with Chris, breaking his posture. “I can beat this test. I _know_ I can.”

“You’ve told me that twice before, Jim; you understand why your credibility may have faltered a little.”

Jim raked a hand through his hair. “There’s always an answer. There’s always a weak point, a vulnerability…sometimes you just have to modify the game you’re playing in order to exploit it.”

“That’s called stacking the deck, and it’s illegal in Vegas, Monte Carlo, Risa, _and the sim lab downstairs,”_ Chris said intentionally. “We’ve had this conversation before I don’t know how many times, Jim: the entire purpose of the Kobayashi Maru scenario is to _not_ find an answer and learn how to deal with it when there isn’t one. You wanted command track. Well, this is command, son.”

Jim shook his head. “I can’t accept that.”

“Yeah,” Chris admitted, “it’s an ugly reality of the work you and I do. I’ll give you that. But it _is_ a reality. Jim, someday, somehow, somebody’s going to fuck up. It might not be you or me specifically, but _somebody,_ because people _do._ One day, you’re going to be in a situation where all of the options are shitty, and you need to figure out how to handle that. If you don’t, you’re going to either freeze or go off half-cocked, and people are going to get hurt or killed because of it.”

“I can’t accept that,” Jim repeated, looking at Chris a little incredulously, “and for that matter, sir, I don’t think _you_ fully accept it, either. If you had, you’d never have brought up my father when you talked me into signing up. You would never have told me all about him not believing in no-win scenarios. You _sure_ as hell would never have dared me to outdo him.”

Chris had to physically clench his teeth together to spare Jim from a particularly ugly retort that coiled itself at the base of his tongue and threatened to spill out.

_George Kirk died, kid. Don’t you get it? His no-win scenario is why you grew up without your father._

Something white-hot streaked through Chris’ gut, both at the words he’d just bit back and the words he hadn’t when he brought Jim into the fold two and a half years ago. Distantly, he recognized it as shame.

“Look,” he finally said in a low voice. “You wanna take the Kobayashi Maru again? Fine. I’ll sign off on it. You can take it a third time. You can take it a fourth, a fifth, a twelfth time if you want. I’ll sign off on your requests from here to eternity, Jim, but none of that – _none of it_ – is going to change the fact that one day, and one day _soon,_ you are going to have to learn how to lose.”

Jim’s eyes flashed with something Chris had seen very, very rarely, a kind of anger that he almost never brought to the table. Chris would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t fear that look just a little bit.

“I believe I am intimately familiar with the concept of _loss,_ sir,” Jim said in a dangerously low voice.

Chris felt his breath leave him.

“May I be dismissed, Captain?”

A tense couple of beats passed between Chris and Jim before Chris nodded. “Dismissed.”

Jim turned on his heel and left Chris’ office. Chris collapsed in his chair, feeling not just a little shitty about himself.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris’ low mood about his discussion with Jim persisted all day, and by the time he left the office, he was cranky, hungry, and tired. He commed Phil, who’d been sleeping off a horrendous call weekend, and volunteered to get dinner for them both. On his way home from the Spend and Save, a lanky figure with a hunched posture caught his eye, and without thinking on it too hard, Chris walked over to it.

Jim Kirk was sitting on a concrete partition and smoking a cigarette, the little pain in the ass.

“That shit’ll kill you, you know,” Chris said lowly, just like he’d said to his father the last time he saw him; then, remembering who the paternal figure in this situation was, he reached up and unceremoniously plucked the cigarette out of Jim’s fingers, snubbing it out under his heel.

Jim glared mildly.

Chris studiously avoided eye contact. “Sometimes I’m an asshole,” he non-apologized.

“Sometimes I’m mildly reckless,” Jim replied dryly.

Chris gave him a comically flat look. Jim snickered.

“Are we okay? You and me?”

Jim shrugged. “I’m still gonna take the test again.”

“I know.”

“And I _am_ gonna beat it, too.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, we’re okay.”

The relief Chris felt could not be quantified. It made him feel suddenly twenty kilos lighter than he had all day. “Where’s Tweedle-Dum?” he asked.

Jim picked at a spot of nothing on his jacket. “On his way home to Georgia. He gets Jo for Christmas Eve and part of New Year’s.”

“You didn’t go with him?” Chris asked, surprised.

Jim looked up and scoffed. “Oh yes, that would be the crowning touch,” he snorted. “Him showing up for visitation with his _new boyfriend_ in tow. Bones _just_ got a custody arrangement that lets him see his kid, and he got it over the lovely former Mrs. McCoy’s stringent objections; no, I didn’t go, lest the She-Devil _completely_ lose her shit.”

Chris nodded. Fair enough. “Well, then, what are you doing for the break?”

Jim looked down again and shrugged, letting his silence say _sitting in my dorm room eating lukewarm leftovers and rocking back and forth holding my knees._

Chris let the silence pass for a beat before hustling Jim off the partition he was sitting on, saying in a poor imitation of Jim’s voice, “Well, Chris, I guess I’m going home with you and eating all your food and crashing on your couch like the reprobate I am.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With Chris’ family absent and Phil’s on the other side of the country, Federation holidays didn’t translate into “family togetherness” for them the way they did for most people. Phil commed his family every year, and tried to go see them as many years as he could – usually bringing Chris along – but those years were few and far between. So Chris and Phil didn’t typically do much for the holidays, beyond food and sharing the same space.

Jim slipped seamlessly into that pattern. He was a surprisingly respectful houseguest, folding his bedding in a neat pile after he woke up, not taking too long in the shower, and not eating Chris out of house and home. Even better, he offered to take on some of the cooking duties, and while it surprised exactly no one that Jim was a better cook than Chris, he was also a fair bit better than Phil.

“Chris,” Jim said sleepily one night, curled on his side on the futon in Chris’ living room, covered by the same old blanket of Phil’s that Chris had used at the Academy.

Chris paused in his turning off lights. “Hmm?”

Jim’s eyes stayed closed, but a little smile curled his lips. “Thanks for letting me stay here.” He nestled deeper into the pillow under his head. “I didn’t really want to be alone.”

Something warm and fiercely protective wrapped around Chris’ heart. “Anytime, Jim.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your goddamn pet cadet beat the goddamn Kobayashi Maru.”

Chris blinked up as Admiral James “Special Kind of Asshole” Komack strode into his office without so much as a greeting.

“Admiral,” Chris greeted coldly. “My who did what, and _where was I?”_

Komack tossed a PADD on Chris’ desk that landed with a loud _clack._ “You’re Commander of Cadets. Disciplinary action’s your wheelhouse. Look through this code; find out how he did it. Half the computer science division is still scratching their heads.”

“Disciplinary – look, Admiral, maybe I’m not – ”

“You have your orders, Captain. Report whatever findings you can squeeze out of that mess – ” he gestured to the PADD “ – to the board.”

Komack left as unceremoniously as he’d arrived, the asshole, and Chris was left uncertain of what to do.

_He did it._

Something in Chris – something he didn’t necessarily _like_ – stirred with a feeling resembling pride. Jim had said he’d beat the test, and he did, when everybody was trying to tell him he couldn’t. But if he’d resorted to underhanded methods to do it, then what had he really learned? How to cheat the system?

Chris looked up at the chronometer, then decided to try to comm Jim. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t pick up.

“Cadet Kirk, call me back as soon as you get this. _That’s an order.”_

Setting his comm on his desk, Chris picked up the PADD and began to leaf through pages and pages and _pages_ of code.

Chris _hated_ code. He didn’t understand it, he didn’t appreciate it, it made no sense to him. If the eggheads in comp sci who thought code was a thing of beauty couldn’t see anything wrong with this, then Chris thought the odds of _him_ finding something were slim to nil. Komack assigned him this task, no doubt, just to be a dick.

An hour and another left comm message for Jim later (“Cadet, pick up your fucking comm so I can yell at you in person!”), Chris saw it.

It was so subtle. So elegant and effortless. Just half a line of code, designed to chain-react throughout the rest of the simulation.

Chris blinked a few times, trying to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, before his terminal chimed. He shook his head and looked to it; it was an all cadets message on which he’d been CC’ed, directing all cadets to report to Assembly Hall A for a disciplinary hearing in twenty minutes.

Comp sci had already found it.

_“Son of a bitch,”_ Chris breathed, before flying out of his office and jogging most of the way to the Assembly Hall.

“Captain Pike,” a voice greeted as Chris plowed full speed ahead. He forced himself to put on the brakes and look at the source of the voice.

“Admiral Marcus,” Chris greeted neutrally.

Marcus walked a little closer to Chris and said quietly, “Go back to your office.”

Chris very nearly laughed. “I’m Commander of Cadets. Disciplinary hearings are part of my job description. Komack even said – ”

But Marcus was already shaking his head. “We have decided that, in this particular case, you should be excluded from the proceedings,” he interrupted.

Chris was _livid._ “May I ask why?” he said through gritted teeth.

“The board believes that your close and personal relationship with the cadet in question today would render you unable to offer an objective opinion,” Marcus answered calmly.

Chris felt something like panic rising in his gut. _Fuck, this is bad, this is worse than I thought it would be._ “Admiral, listen. I understand that Kirk did something he shouldn’t have done, and I agree that disciplinary action is merited here; but the board…” Chris looked hopelessly into the open doors of Assembly Hall A, his eyes catching sight of the respective dark and blond heads of Len and Jim, sitting toward the front. “The board’s going to overreach here.” Chris looked back to Marcus, his voice dangerously close to pleading. “They don’t know Jim.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Marcus said firmly. “That’s why they can be objective about this and you cannot. Thank you for proving their concerns valid.” Marcus’ voice gentled just slightly. “Chris, you are much too close to this situation to participate in any disciplinary action for Cadet Kirk. I think you know that.”

Chris watched the board assembling, Rick Barnett’s stern but kind face in the center seat, Komack’s pompous ass nearby; he saw the back of Jim’s head again, turned slightly toward Len…and Chris _panicked._

“They can’t do this,” Chris muttered, before pulling his voice up to a normal volume. “They can’t do this. They’re gonna toss him out on his ass, and we’re gonna lose one of the best and brightest goddamn cadets this organization has seen _since its inception._ All because of half a line of fucking code?! This is wrong, Admiral, and _someone needs to stop it.”_

Marcus’ steely glare hardened. “Captain Pike, you will control yourself, before you find _yourself_ the subject of a disciplinary review.” He turned back to the double doors of the Assembly Hall, then back to Chris. “You’re dismissed.” Marcus walked into the hall and pushed the double doors shut behind him.

Chris caught Barnett saying “This session has been called to resolve a troubling matter” before the doors clicked shut. He shot the doors a last thunderous look before storming back to his office.

Once the doors were sealed, he kicked a file cabinet in frustration, put his hands on his hips, and sighed.

On the whole, Chris thought he was pretty even-tempered. He could be stern, for sure, but it took a _lot_ to make him totally spitting pissed, especially at the people he cared the most about – but he was definitely there now.

God help him when the hearing was over. If Jim had managed to cock up his chance to be one of the best officers Starfleet had ever seen with this _no such thing as a no-win scenario_ bullshit (which, yes, Chris was aware was partially his fault, impromptu recruiting speech and all), Chris was going to _hit the roof._

More than anything, though, Chris was disappointed, which might’ve even been worse than the anger. Because _Jesus,_ Jim had potential like Chris had never seen. Chris brought Jim into the fold with the hubris to think that he might be able to help him blend that attitude, that cockiness, that act-first-ask-questions-later quality with command-level thinking. If he could do that, then he’d be one _hell_ of an officer.

But no. It was easier to _cheat._

What pissed Chris off, really, was that Jim wasn’t thinking like the commanding officer that Chris _knew_ he could be. He was still thinking like an angry teenager, stacking the deck so he wasn’t dealt a hand he didn’t like.

Unable to stop himself, and knowing Jim wouldn’t get the message until after the hearing, Chris sent a text comm to Jim.

_Cheating isn’t winning._

He sat, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then got shaken out of his internal diatribe by a message on his terminal from Command. Something about a distress call from Vulcan.

Chris felt his professional mask slipping back into place.

_Guess the Enterprise is going into service a bit early._

On his way down to Hangar One, Chris shot off a quick comm to Phil, who he knew was in the OR at the moment. _Quick trip to Vulcan. Distress call. While I’m gone, smack Jim for me please. Long story. Tell you later. xo._


	17. Chapter 17

Given the crisis situation at hand, the disproportionately large number of cadets on board in lieu of actual officers, and the number of officers in “fill-in” positions because of the urgent nature of the mission, it was a surprising relief that the preparations for the Enterprise’s launch were going so smoothly. Chris knew Starfleet training like the back of his hand and knew they were prepping the best of the best to head out there, but even so, the greenness of the crew could’ve lent itself to some major hiccups. That it did not was both shocking and appreciated.

Then, of course, the other seven ships popped into warp while the Enterprise’s engines just groaned, and, well, the absence of hiccups was nice while it lasted.

Chris looked at the back of the sleek black head at the helm with faint amusement. “Lieutenant, where’s helmsman McKenna?”

“He has lungworm, sir. He couldn’t report to his post.” The lieutenant swiveled around. “I’m Hikaru Sulu.”

Chris gave him a look. “And you are a pilot, right?”

Sulu flushed and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Very much so, sir. I’m, ah, I’m not sure what’s wrong here – ”

Chris turned around and shot an exasperated look at Spock, who just raised a stoic eyebrow. “Is the parking brake on?” he asked in the same tone he used when Jim was being particularly petulant.

Sulu laughed again. “Uh, _no,”_ he said. “I’ll figure it out, I just – ”

Spock’s voice popped up from behind Chris’ shoulder. “Have you disengaged the external inertial dampener?”

Sulu went still at the helm, punching three controls with intent. Chris folded his arms and had to bite down on his lips to keep from smirking. _It is now._

“Ready for warp, sir,” Sulu announced without looking at Chris. His ears were pink.

Chris chuckled lowly. “Let’s punch it.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
They’d been cruising at maximum warp for a couple of minutes, in which Chris was reviewing the data on the nature of Vulcan’s distress call and dearly wishing Erin was here to lend her geologist’s opinion on it, when a clamor came from the direction of the turbolift, causing every head on the bridge to turn in that direction.

“Captain!”

“Kirk!”

“Jim – ”

_Jim?_

“Captain Pike, sir, we have to stop the ship!”

There was Jim, bursting onto the bridge in casual blacks, fingers inexplicably swollen to the size of cucumbers, looking at Chris with a desperate look on his face. Len and Uhura were both right in his wake, apparently trying to stop him from making an ass of himself.

Chris saw red.

_You fuck with the Maru, you sneak your way onto my ship, and now you’re issuing demands? What the hell’s wrong with you?_

That he could only assume Len had played some considerable role in getting him onboard only made him that much angrier.

“Kirk, how the hell did you get onboard the Enterprise?”

Len, bless his decent heart, tried to intervene. “Captain, this man’s under the influence of a severe reaction to a vaccine – ”

“Bones!”

“ – he’s completely delusional – ”

“Look, Bones – ”

“I take full responsibility – ”

_“Vulcan’s not experiencing a natural disaster,”_ Jim finally burst. “It’s being attacked by Romulans.”

_Len’s right. He is delusional._ “Romulans,” Chris spat. “Cadet Kirk, I think you’ve had enough attention for one day. McCoy, take him back to Medical; we’ll have words later.”

“Aye, Captain,” Len said, trying unsuccessfully to corral Jim, who followed Chris back to the chair without skipping a beat.

“Sir, that same anomaly we saw today – ”

Chris rounded on him. _“Kirk…”_

Then Spock got involved, which always both simplified and complicated matters. “Mr. Kirk is not cleared to be aboard this vessel.”

“Look, I get it, you’re a great arguer – ”

“By Starfleet regulations, that makes him a stowaway – ”

“I’d love to do it again with you, too – ”

“I can remove the cadet if necessary – ”

_“Try it!”_ Jim exploded. “This cadet is trying to save the bridge.”

“By recommending a full stop mid-warp during a rescue mission?”

Somewhere, in the part of Chris’ mind that wasn’t in crisis mode, he idly wondered if this is how Evan Russell felt that time in his ready room when Chris first met Gen. _A particularly amusing tennis match._

Jim turned away from Spock and looked on Chris with slightly pleading eyes. “It’s not a rescue mission. Listen to me. It’s an attack.”

“Based on what _facts?”_ Spock interjected coolly. Jim glared in his direction, but Chris simply looked at Jim, waiting for him to answer.

Jim seemed to steel himself, then spoke. “That same anomaly, a lightning storm in space that we saw today, also occurred on the day of my birth.”

_…Shit._

“Before a Romulan ship attacked the USS Kelvin.”

_Shit, shit, shit. He’s right. Lightning storm in space. He’s right. But that would have to mean…_

Jim turned to Chris. “You know that, sir. I read your dissertation.” He turned back to Spock. “That ship, which had formidable and advanced weaponry, was never seen or heard from again. The Kelvin attack took place on the edge of Klingon space, and at 2300 hours last night, there was an attack. Forty-seven Klingon warbirds destroyed by Romulans, sir, and it was reported that the Romulans were in one ship, one _massive_ ship.”

Something extremely unpleasant was tickling the base of Chris’ brain, but there was one piece of the puzzle that just didn’t fit. “And you know of this Klingon attack how?”

Jim stayed silent, but looked over to Uhura, who momentarily looked like a deer in the headlights before coming to herself.

“Sir, I intercepted and translated the message myself,” she confirmed. “Kirk’s report is accurate.”

“We’re warping into a trap, sir,” Jim said, his voice mildly pleading. “The Romulans are waiting for us; I promise you that.”

Chris looked over to Spock. This story passed Chris’ logic test, but Spock was the expert.

“The cadet’s logic is sound,” Spock confirmed primly. “And Lieutenant Uhura is unmatched in xenolinguistics; we would be wise to accept her conclusion.”

“Scan Vulcan space,” Chris ordered. “Check for any transmissions in Romulan.”

“Sir, I’m not sure I can distinguish the Romulan language from Vulcan.”

Chris approached Uhura. “What about you? Do you speak Romulan, Cadet?”

“Uhura,” she reminded him unnecessarily. “All three dialects, sir.”

_Of course you do._ “Uhura,” Chris said, “relieve the lieutenant.”

Uhura visibly swallowed. “Yes sir.”

“Hannity, hail the USS Truman.”

Megan Hannity was frowning at her terminal. “All the other ships are out of warp, sir, and have arrived at Vulcan, but we seem to have lost all contact.”

“Sir, I pick up no Romulan transmission,” Uhura spoke from her post. “Or transmission of any kind in the area.”

“It’s because they’re being attacked,” Jim reiterated bluntly.

Chris could hear his heart thud in his ears with the dawning understanding that they were warping into a complete clusterfuck. He turned, walked back to his chair, and sat, watching as Jim instinctively braced himself.

“Shields up. Red alert.”

“Arrival at Vulcan in five seconds,” Sulu called from the helm. “Four, three, two…”

The Enterprise dropped out of warp like a stone, and… _holy shit._

“Emergency evasive!” Chris called.

The chaos outside – some ships reduced to bits of titanium and duranium, some ships reasonably intact, a few nauseatingly familiar red, blue, and gold shirts cloaking specks in their field of vision – was matched by the chaos on the bridge, with alarms buzzing, voices calling, comms flying in and out, and the violent trembling of weapons fire streaking across the hull. A huge chunk of what appeared to be the (now former) USS Wolcott scraped their starboard nacelle with a sickening squeak as they tried to sneak underneath her, and then, filling the entire viewscreen…

_Jesus._

The disjointed, disquieting, multi-armed, tentacled monster of a ship, dwarfing the Enterprise by several dozen orders of magnitude, made the icy feeling in Chris’ gut harden that much more.

_It was massive,_ an engineering lieutenant who’d evacuated the Kelvin had told him in her interview. _Massive beyond anything I’d ever seen. It nearly blocked out the stars._

_Like chaos personified,_ a stellar cartographer had said.

_Like the spiders back home in Australia,_ a nurse had told him. _Except far more terrifying and deadly._

Jim was right. Jim had deduced this completely correctly.

This was the ship that had attacked the Kelvin twenty-five years ago. The ship that killed Jim’s father.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hello.”

Chris dropped a hand from the armrest, scowling up at the Romulan on the viewscreen.

“I’m Captain Christopher Pike. To whom am I speaking?”

The Romulan on the screen inclined his head cordially. “Hi, Christopher. I’m Nero.”

_Well, don’t you have some balls?_ “You’ve declared war against the Federation. Withdraw and I’ll agree to arrange a conference with Romulan leadership at a neutral location.”

“I do not speak for the Empire,” Nero said. “We stand apart.” Nero’s eyes flicked menacingly over Chris’ shoulder. “As does your Vulcan crewmember, isn’t that right, _Spock?”_

Spock rose and walked closer to the viewscreen, head cocked in curiosity. “Pardon me. I do not believe you and I are acquainted.”

“No we’re not,” Nero replied. “Not yet. Spock, there is something I would like you to see. Captain Pike, your transporter has been disabled. As you can see by the rest of your armada, you have no choice. You will man a shuttle and come aboard the Narada for negotiations. That is all.”

Nero closed the transmission. The silence on the bridge was deafening, but Chris’ mind was already working overtime.

_Drill. Transporter. Disable. How? Get inside. How? Jump._

“He’ll kill you. You know that.” Jim’s voice was almost panicky.

_Distract. How? Hostage. Surrender. Jim was right. Jim was right. Jim was right._

“Your survival is unlikely,” Spock was saying.

_No choice. Torture? Probably. Federation. Vulcan. Life. Save. Cost/benefit._

“Captain, we gain _nothing_ by diplomacy. Going over to that ship is a mistake.”

_Earth. Enterprise. Spock. Len. Jim. Phil._

“I too agree; you should rethink your strategy.”

“I understand that,” Chris cut them off quietly, before turning to the rest of the bridge. “I need officers who’ve been trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat.”

Sulu raised his hand. “I have training, sir.”

“Come with me.” Chris looked to Jim. “Kirk, you too; you’re not supposed to be here anyway. Chekov, you have the conn.”

“Aye, Keptin,” the little wunderkind said.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Priority one was contacting Starfleet for backup, which they couldn’t do with the comm down, and the same thing that was disabling their gear was doing something geologically horrific to Vulcan. They needed to buy time in order to disable the…whatever the hell it was, and the best way to do that, Chris knew, was by offering himself up as a sacrificial lamb.

Not his favorite job description, but one he’d worn well before. After all, there’s no better distraction than a hostage.

_This is what I was talking about,_ Chris tried to telepathically pass to Jim. _All of our options are complete shit. This is the best one, and it’s still shit. Behold, the Kobayashi Maru._

As Chris was walking his team down to the shuttlebay, outlining his plan of action, it came back to him that Jim had been able to suss out this _entire thing_ from only two words. He had presented an airtight, cogent argument to his superiors, and then been completely unafraid to voice his opinion on the plan of action, consequences to him be damned.

_Maybe,_ Chris thought, _I was wrong._

Maybe this was Jim exercising that perfect blend that Chris had envisioned of command-level abstraction with leap-without-looking instinct. Maybe he wasn’t so much stacking the deck as he was rearranging his hand to the most advantageous position.

Maybe Jim was more command-ready than Chris had thought.

Chris had no hesitation about leaving Spock in command of the Enterprise while he went over and did…whatever the hell he was about to do. Spock was a hell of a good officer and damn fine in the chair. He’d be fine. But he needed a balance that he wouldn’t get without Chris. Command teams, in Chris’ opinion, need to consist of one maverick and one do-gooder, one lawful and one chaotic.

Without someone who would argue with him on rank and file matters, Spock would be sunk.

Chris just said it before he could think on the matter too carefully.

“Kirk, I’m promoting you to first officer.”

_What?_ his inner voice said.

“What?” Jim echoed.

“Captain?” Spock said, a little bit of mild alarm in his voice that almost amused Chris. “Please, I apologize; the complexity of human pranks escapes me.”

Chris had to restrain himself from snickering. “It’s not a prank, Spock. And I’m not the captain. _You_ are.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was probably to his benefit that Chris didn’t have great memory of what exactly transpired once he arrived on the Narada.

He remembered getting the shit punched out of him basically as soon as he stepped off his shuttle. He remembered watching in impotent horror as Vulcan crumbled in on itself. He remembered giving his name and rank.

He remembered vomiting, barely able to turn his head so he didn’t choke. He remembered screaming at one point, feeling like his spinal cord had been set on fire.

He remembered resisting.

(He did not remember babbling out the frequencies.)

He remembered closing his eyes and thinking of Phil. Precious, tender, gentle Phil, his serene smile, his little chuckle, his stupid burnt bacon and cheery-ass morning whistling and chapped lips and talented hands and cold toes.

Though it was vague, he did remember seeing Jim through blurred vision, and something about squeezing off a couple of shots behind his back. That was probably his body working on autopilot, he figured.

He remembered feeling the characteristic tingle of a beamout everywhere – except his lower half.

Jim squeezed Chris’ wrist on the arm thrown over his shoulder and made ever-so-brief eye contact with him before handing him over to Len and rushing off with Spock to do captainly things. _Things I should be doing._

Chris’ vision was blurring as Len helped him onto an anti-grav gurney. “Captain, can you hear me?”

Chris managed to focus on a vaguely Len-shaped blob. He nodded.

Len’s voice was calm and steady as a rock, reminding Chris briefly and painfully of Phil. “We’ve got ya, Captain. Try to relax for us.”

“Len,” Chris said in a breathy voice frighteningly close to a whimper, _“I can’t feel my legs.”_

Len’s frown deepened. “Christ, Captain, what’d they do to you over there?”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut as a particularly grueling bolt of pain shot up and down his back. “Centaurian slug.”

“…oh _motherfucker,”_ Len intoned, and then he started yelling. “All right. Hurd, go drag Geoff out of whatever the hell he’s doing and have him start scrubbing in; I’ll need his assist. Then call Natasya and tell her to get her ass down here; she’s on call for everything else while we work on the Captain. Chapel, vitals.”

“BP 73/43, pulse 138, resps 34, satting at 92%, temp – ”

“Hemodynamically screwed, right, got it,” Len interrupted her, before the ship lurched hard to one side. Chris gripped the sides of the gurney. His vision was getting very fuzzy around the edges, and a pregnant sehlat seemed to be sitting on his chest.

Panic is a uniquely awful feeling on its own. Panic when you can neither see properly nor feel the lower half of your body is an altogether different sort of phenomenon. Add in the fact that he had no idea what was going on with his ship, plus the fact that Jim was…

Jim was…

_Oh, god, where is Jim, I need to see Jim, is Jim okay, I need to know Jim’s okay…_

“All right, Captain,” Len said as soothingly as he possibly could. Efficient, professional hands were all over Chris, unceremoniously stripping him and positioning surgical drapes. Another massive lurch shook the ship. “We’ve gotta take you to the OR and we’ve gotta do it _now._ I’m gonna get that fucker out of you, you hear me?”

Chris nodded, then reached out and grabbed at the Len-shaped blob; he felt the slightly quilted texture of a surgical smock under his fingers. _“Jim,”_ Chris whimpered.

Len’s voice sounded confused. “Captain?”

“Need to know…please…Jim’s okay…is Jim okay?”

Len’s voice came closer to Chris’s face. The Enterprise lurched again. “Jim’s fine. Jim’s on the bridge with Spock. He brought you back so we could help you, remember?”

Chris didn’t, but he trusted that Len did, so he nodded. “Jim’s okay.”

Len put a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “Jim’s okay,” he repeated. Chris closed his eyes. _Jim’s okay. Jim’s okay. Jim’s okay._

Len disappeared to scrub in, barking orders at his staff as he went. “Let’s get an IV in him. Lights to two hundred percent. Chapel, I need your hands intraop; get Anna on anesthesia, I don’t want anybody else but her. I want him in Concorde position; Geoff, help her flip him, would you? Have blood products on standby, and be sure that…”

Chris could hear the _beep, beep, beep_ of the biobed readout above him getting faster as his heart rate ticked steadily upward. _Hurts, numb, my ship, Jim, god it hurts, scared, walk again, Phil, love, help, Christopher Pike, Captain, USS Enterprise, please…_

A gentle voice approached him from the left. “You’re gonna go to sleep now, Captain. Start counting backwards from ten for me.”

Chris felt the press of a hypospray against his neck, and he remembered no more.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris’ eyes next fluttered opened, he was not on the Enterprise.

The lights in his room were low, but not totally out. It was dark outside the large window in the room he was in. Distantly, he could make out the Golden Gate.

_‘Fleet Medical,_ his brain filled in, before his eyes closed again.

Followed shortly thereafter by _hey, I can see clearly again._

Which was, in turn, followed by _I still can’t feel my legs._

The biobed readout beeped annoyingly above him, and Chris used what little energy he had to wince in response to it. Somewhere to his right, the sound of a PADD clattering to the floor echoed.

“Chris? Chris?”

A voice, also from Chris’ right. Insistent, but gentle. _Phil._

“Whazzat?” A sleepy voice, to the left, not yet identifiable.

Phil, again. His hand, warm around Chris’ fingers. “Chris, c’mon. You’re waking up. You’re okay. C’mon, love, open your eyes. Come back.” The sound of a comm panel on the wall being smacked. “It’s Boyce. Get McCoy, _now.”_

A little breathed _“Chris”_ to his left, from the formerly unidentifiable voice. _Jim._

Through the unbelievably thick haze of weak and woozy, Chris felt Phil’s hand on his cheek and tried, desperately, to open his eyes more.

_There._

Phil sucked in a huge breath without breaking eye contact. “Hey, stranger.”

Chris’s eyes broke from Phil’s to see Jim, standing at the foot of Chris’ bed, arms wrapped protectively around himself. Len burst in, gave a small smile to Chris, and looked immediately to the biobed readout, putting a hand on the small of Jim’s back.

It took Chris a couple of tries before something cogent came out. Then: “Phil?”

Phil squeezed Chris’ fingers. “I’m here, Chris.”

“How you feeling, Captain?” Len asked gently, approaching the biobed.

Chris’ mouth felt _disgusting._ “Foggy,” he finally said. “Dry. Little queasy. Can I have some water?”

“Not so fast,” Len said. “Ice chips, to start. Jim, could you…?”

Jim collected him a cup. “What happened to me?”

“Let me check some facts and figures first, and then I’ll go over it with you, okay?” Len offered gently. Jim handed Chris his cup of ice and a spoon. His eyes were suspiciously red-rimmed.

“How’s the Enterprise?” Chris asked Jim, letting a spoonful of ice melt on his tongue while Len did his thing.

Jim smiled tightly. “She’s a little banged up, but she’ll be fine. She’ll be ready to go back out in a few months, once they outfit her with a new warp core.”

Chris paused mid-melt. “What happened to her _old_ warp core?”

“I may have authorized its jettison and detonation in order to prevent us from being sucked into a black hole.”

Chris stared at Jim for half a second, before simply raising his eyebrows and intoning, “Of course you did.”

Len broke in. “How’s your sensation waist-down, Captain?”

“Shitty,” Chris replied bluntly. “Mostly numb. Some pins and needles.”

Len nodded resignedly.

“Can we go over what’s happened now? I don’t even know what day it is. How long was I out?”

Len, Phil, and Jim shared a look, and then all three men sat, Len leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees.

“Since we got you off the Narada, it’s been ten days,” Len finally answered.

_“Ten days?!”_ Chris burst, as much as he could at the moment.

“Eight of them on the Enterprise. We just got back to Earth day before yesterday.”

Chris blinked. “Why – ”

“No warp drive,” Jim reminded him. “We limped part of the way on impulse; then the Lovell hauled ass from the Laurentian system and gave us a tow back home.”

Chris shook his head a little, as much as he was able, and sent up a silent _thank you_ to Number One for coming in clutch. “All right,” he said quietly, “so what about me?”

Len took a deep breath. “There’s a lot of information for me to run through with you about your condition, and I don’t want to overwhelm you. So if you need me to stop, or go back and explain something, you tell me, okay?”

Chris nodded stiffly.

“All right. Well, you’ve had two surgeries so far, one on the Enterprise and one here. In the first one, I removed the primary slug from your intestines and repaired the trauma to that tissue, plus removed her babies from your spinal cord.” Chris shuddered. “That was about my reaction, yeah. I also harvested some stem cells to create a neural patch that I grafted onto your brainstem to heal those injuries. That’s the main reason I kept you out for as long as I did; I wanted to monitor your basic autonomic functions – breathing, heart rate, that kinda thing. The good news is, it seems to have taken without a problem. If you haven’t had complications from the graft yet, I doubt you will.”

Chris reached out and grabbed Phil’s hand. “And the second surgery?”

“Exploratory,” Len said. “Those critters made your immune system go crazy. You were nothin’ but inflammation in there. I couldn’t get a good idea of the damage until that calmed down, so I put you on two different broad-spectrum antibiotics, a systemic anti-inflammatory, and a high-dose immune modulator. I don’t know how you’ve gotten so damn lucky as to get away without developing an infection, but you have, and I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth on that one.”

“What’d you find in the second surgery?”

Len shot a cursory glance at Phil, then looked back to Chris. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Captain. It was pretty ugly in there.” Chris’ grip on Phil’s hand got a little tighter. “See, Centuarian slugs release a neurotoxin as a waste product, and that neurotoxin dissolves myelin – that’s the waxy stuff that covers your nerves, insulates them, helps with electrical conduction.” Len paused and took a deep breath. “The neurotoxin either profoundly weakened or completely stripped most of the myelin from the lower half of your spinal cord, and a fair few of your spinal nerves, up to about your eleventh thoracic vertebra.” Len shifted in his seat, so his body was in profile, and gestured, using himself as a model. “That’s about there.”

Chris concentrated on the sensations in his body. “Yeah…that roughly corresponds to where the shitty feeling starts.”

“I’m not surprised,” Len said. “Now, myelin can be regenerated from stem cells. I’m already working on it. But myelin regeneration…it’s slow, it’s imperfect, and it’s extremely difficult. We’re not gonna have enough myelin to work with for a matter of months, and once we do, we’ll fix as much as we can, but complete remyelination is just not possible.”

“You’re saying this is permanent?” Chris asked roughly.

“I’m saying we can improve it, but not cure it,” Len clarified. “Chances are, you’re gonna have some degree of neuropathy no matter how much we fix.”

Chris’ voice got very, very quiet. “Am I gonna walk again?”

“The odds are good,” Len said carefully, “but it’s too soon for me to say for sure. Definitely not before the remyelination procedure, though.”

_If I can’t walk, I can’t command a starship._ The thought rested thick and slimy in Chris’ mind. “What about physical therapy or something?”

“After the remyelination, yes, absolutely, but not before.”

“Why not before?”

Len sighed, a reluctant look on his face. “That brings me to the next problem.”

_There’s more?_

“Your kidneys,” Len continued. “When you came back to the Enterprise, you were in clinical shock. I wasn’t exactly surprised that your kidneys didn’t look so hot at the time. But once we got you stabilized, and once the slug and her babies were out of you, your kidneys just got shittier.” Len formed a fist on his thigh, and Chris saw Jim rest a hand on the back of Len’s neck. “The larvae didn’t just go up your spinal cord; they traveled through your bloodstream, and they landed in the largest storage compartment in the body, your muscles. Your kidneys weren’t just trying to filter out the neurotoxin, but the myoglobin from the muscle tissue they were chomping on, not to mention the cocktail of drugs I’ve had to give you to keep you unconscious. They were overwhelmed and they got trashed. It’s called rhabdomyolysis.”

“What do we do about that?” Chris asked numbly.

Len nodded to the large-bore IV in Chris left hand. “You’re on continuous hemofiltration therapy right now to try to flush those toxins out of your body,” he answered. “I started you on it six days ago and you’re not getting off it anytime soon, so get used to that thing.”

“If you were to start physical therapy now, while your muscles are still healing, you’d run the risk of spilling more myoglobin into your system, and you’d end up back at square one,” Phil clarified. “Plus, you’ll get far more benefit from PT with the new myelin than you would right now.”

Chris swallowed thickly, trying to process this. “So…I’ve got nerve, kidney, _and_ muscle stuff going on…that about cover it, or is there more?”

“That, fortunately, covers it,” Len said, leaning back in his chair. “What questions do you have?”

Chris looked at the bedspread and nowhere else. “Can I captain a starship again?”

Even though he didn’t look up, he could feel Phil, Len, and Jim all making three-way eye contact again.

“If I could give you a straight answer on that yet, Captain, I would,” Len said gently. “We just don’t know yet.”

Jim, who’d sat in silence this entire time, obviously having already heard all of this information, just said, “We can hope.”

Phil ran his thumb over Chris’ knuckles and said, very quietly, “You’re _alive,_ Chris.”

Chris nodded, but squeezed Phil’s hand tightly. He felt oddly empty.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was asleep at the precise moment he was officially promoted to Admiral.

Recovering from having his brainstem grafted, his nerves chomped on, his muscles damaged, and his kidneys trashed was – surprise, surprise – exhausting, so Chris slept away a lot of the day, every day. On that particular day, he woke up slowly, not knowing what day or time it was – best guess, judging by the light filtering in from the windows, it was late afternoon – to the sound of voices in his hospital room. Jim and Len. Phil wasn’t there; Chris assumed he’d gone to check on the growth of the new myelin, which was really the only time he’d leave Chris’ side.

He didn’t open his eyes, but he listened. Len was speaking.

“I should’ve known,” he was muttering. “I should’ve fucking known, as soon as I got all the damn critters out of there and his kidneys kept getting shittier and shittier. I should’ve…”

“Bones,” Jim said gently, “you did everything right. You can’t – ”

“I did _not_ do everything fucking _right,_ Jim,” Len interrupted harshly. “I could’ve done the goddamn _math_ and seen how this all added up. I could’ve been quicker. I could’ve thought about his goddamn muscles quicker. I could’ve got him on filtration sooner. I could’ve – ”

“You could’ve done a hundred things that make perfect sense in retrospect, yeah, I know,” Jim cut him off. “Listen to me, Bones. Everybody knows that you did absolutely everything you could do as fast as you could do it. You were operating on a starship without warp capability, without the benefit of a full staff backing you up, with a medbay full of other patients who needed your attention, pulling alien creatures out of him.” Chris cracked one eye slightly open; he could see Jim cupping Len’s cheek. “You did better than any other doctor could have done for him, and you did it under unusually difficult circumstances. Stop kicking yourself in the ass.”

Len’s head was bowed. The spectre of guilt over him was almost palpable. “I look at him, Jim,” he said very quietly, “and I see how long and hard and painful and _awful_ his recovery’s gonna be. I look at Phil, and I look at you, and I see how hard it’s gonna be on both of you to watch it. And I know, all that pain…that’s on me.”

“No, that’s on Nero and his goons,” Jim corrected sharply. “What’s on _you_ is that Chris is fucking _alive_ to _have_ that recovery.” His voice softened. “Nobody expects you to do the superhuman here, Bones.”

There was a pause. Then Len sighed. “I do.”

Chris’ eyes fluttered a little. Jim was holding Len’s head to his shoulder, running his fingers through Len’s hair. He looked up and saw Chris, awake and watching them. For a brief moment, Chris felt voyeuristic; then, Jim smiled softly at him, so Chris smiled back.

Jim and Len broke apart quickly at the sound of footsteps walking into Chris’ hospital room, then scrambled to stand at something that looked vaguely like attention.

“Afternoon, Cadets.”

_Jesus, he sounds even more like a pompous ass than I remember,_ Chris mused to himself.

“Admiral Marcus, sir,” Len and Jim chorused.

Chris sighed and rolled his eyes before turning his head to face Marcus.

“You’re dismissed, Cadets; I need a word.”

Chris was halfway through musing whether it was _really_ appropriate to still refer to them as “cadets,” given their recent history of captaining a starship and commanding a medbay aboard, respectively, and then saving the Federation, when Marcus turned to him and spoke.

“I’m here to inform you that you’ve been promoted,” Marcus said austerely. “Congratulations, _Admiral_ Pike.”

And there it was. The dreadful blow Chris had been expecting.

He could, he supposed, hear this as the good news that usually comes with professional advancement. Nicer uniform. Cushier office. More prestige. Larger retirement package. Most of the admirals Chris knew were delighted with their promotions.

But all Chris heard in the phrase _Admiral Pike_ was _you will never command a starship again._

Very rarely, admirals got to tag along on starships – usually on short-range ones involved in diplomatic missions, like those the Lovell was responsible for. Once in a great while, an admiral might come aboard a ship as part of a disciplinary committee, or to flash some ribbons and medals and other such chest candy at ceremonies to make nice with alien governments. But admirals didn’t explore. Admirals primarily sat behind desks, pushed paperwork, told what ships to go where, and went to meetings.

It sounded so, _so_ boring.

From somewhere deep within him, Chris managed a nod. “Thank you, Admiral.”

“No need for the formality,” Marcus said with a chuckle. “I don’t outrank you anymore, son…except in age, that is! I’m sure you’d also be happy to know that we’re giving your boy Kirk a special commendation.”

_A commendation,_ Chris thought. _For saving billions – trillions – more – lives. Jim saves the Federation, and they pin a goddamn medal to his tunic._

When Chris just looked back at him dully, Marcus’ face fell slightly. “I must admit, Chris, I’m a little…surprised, let’s say…about your lack of celebration.”

And that? That pissed Chris _right off._

Because Marcus, that self-important prig, was the one who sat across from Chris in his guidance counselor’s office and made him all kinds of promises about sailing the stars and new experiences and defense and discoveries and beauty and turning the strange into the familiar. All the things that this promotion was now explicitly denying Chris.

_Not that I’m in much of a position to refuse,_ Chris thought bitterly, glaring at his legs, a dart of stinging pain shooting up his left one just to spite him.

“My apologies…Admiral,” Chris said, definitely not yet able to call Marcus anything else. “I’m simply preoccupied with the question of whether or not I’ll walk again.”

Marcus’ posture straightened slightly, as if coming to the realization that he’d acted like kind of a dick. It would’ve been considerably satisfying, had Chris the capacity for that kind of satisfaction at that moment.

“Admiral Marcus.”

_Saved by the Phil,_ Chris thought wryly, as Marcus turned and revealed Phil’s frame in the doorway.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” Phil said dryly, pulling out his tricorder and powering it up. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I need to confer with my patient in private. If you wouldn’t mind…?”

Marcus nodded awkwardly. “Of…of course. Yes. Well. I’ll, ah, be in touch, Chris.”

He tripped over his feet leaving the room. Chris snickered darkly as Phil thumbed the door closed behind him.

“Arrogant gasbag,” Phil muttered, tossing down his tricorder on the nearest flat surface and coming over to sit next to Chris, holding his hand, running his thumb over Chris’ knuckles.

Chris just stared down at their hands for a moment. Then he said, very quietly, “They made me an admiral.”

Phil closed his eyes, knowing what this meant just as much as Chris did. “I’m sorry, love.”

Chris nodded, embarrassed to feel the beginning of tears burning behind his eyes. “Not like I’m in any condition to say no right now, right?” He tried to smile, but just wound up biting his lip.

“Is there nothing you can do?” Phil asked gently. “Anything that can make this easier for you…better?”

Chris just shook his head – then stopped. He’d forgotten one admiral’s duty.

Admirals got to assign captains to ships. And when admirals got promoted straight off a ship, they usually got to pick who got their baby.

“There’s one thing,” Chris said, before looking up at Phil urgently. “Go get Marcus. _Hurry.”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“By Starfleet Order 28455, you are hereby directed to report to Admiral Pike, USS Enterprise, for duty as his relief.”

Goddamn, even _Rick Barnett,_ the most chronically underwhelmed man Chris had ever met, sounded proud of Jim. _Would wonders never cease?_

The yeoman wheeled Chris over. Jim stood in front of him, eyes forward, at perfect attention.

There had been a day, not that long ago, when _perfect attention_ and _Jim Kirk_ were not phrases that belonged in the same sector, let alone sentence.

But, well…that was Before.

“I relieve you, sir.”

Chris looked up at Jim and smiled. The light streaming through the windows of Assembly Hall A reflected off the tiny metallic arrowhead on Jim’s collar.

And damned if his eyes weren’t dancing the same way they’d done twenty-five years before, staring at the arrowhead on Chris’ collar in his Iowa living room.

“I am relieved,” Chris said, in every sense of the term.

Jim’s eyes flicked downward and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Chris’ heart felt incredibly full. “Congratulations, _Captain,”_ he said, with some intention behind it, reaching out to shake Jim’s hand. “Your father would be proud.”

The assembly hall erupted into applause – applause that, yes, was far too thin, rung far too rich with the losses they’d just suffered – but applause that was still loud enough to drown out what Chris said next.

_“I’m_ proud of you, son.”


	18. Chapter 18

Phil lived in a bungalow walking distance from Chris’ apartment. (Or, Chris thought to himself, what _used_ to constitute “walking distance,” back when walking was _a thing he could do.)_ So when he finally, _blessedly_ got discharged from ‘Fleet Medical, he went home to Phil’s, because that walkup to his apartment was emphatically not happening.

Not unlike when he was in the hospital, Chris spent a lot of time in bed once he was discharged. It was, however, a nicer, bigger bed, in which he could wear his own damn clothes, and in which Phil could also be found a lot of the time – so, on the whole, a massive upgrade. When he wasn’t in bed, he was trying to figure out the logistics of operating a wheelchair on his own, which required a surprising-in-a-way-that-shouldn’t-be-surprising amount of upper body strength.

Jim came to see Chris in what time was his own, but there wasn’t much of that lately. Between his promotion and the Enterprise’s significant repair needs, everybody seemed to want a piece of him, from Marcus to Spock to that Scottish engineering miracle worker he’d picked up on that ice ball. He came over to the house late one night with massive bags under his eyes and his hair sticking up at angles like he’d run his hands through it a million times in frustration, and Chris just laughed.

“Welcome to command, Captain,” he said sardonically.

“I hereby apologize for any shit I’ve given you about _working hard_ or _hardly working._ Like, ever,” Jim said from behind the hands he’d buried his face in.

Len came over more or less daily, but he had the dual advantage of a need to monitor Chris’ progress at home and more overall time to play with than Jim had.

Chris’ mobility – or lack thereof – was more or less unchanged since he came home. Neither Len nor Phil expressed surprise in that department – “I doubt anything’ll really change on that front until we remyelinate,” Len had said in a tone Chris thought was meant to be encouraging. (It was still depressing as hell.) The good news was that his kidneys had markedly improved, enough that, once the remyelination surgery took place, he was green-lit to begin physical therapy right away. Fingers crossed, that would help him avoid any further muscle wastage.

The big problems now were twofold, and the first was the pain.

Phil had long given Chris grief about the fact that he had exactly two settings: _workaholic_ and _lazy fucker._ When he was working, he was single-minded to the point of being obsessive; all-go, no-quit, three-in-the-morning, coffee-and-stims obsessive. But as soon as he had a day off? Chris became one with his sofa and expended only as much energy as was necessary to take in oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. _Workaholic_ or _lazy fucker_ – no in-between.

Unfortunately, Chris’ pain seemed to use an identical MO.

There were spots of Chris that were largely numb, most of them around his feet and ankles. Those were the lazy fuckers. The numbness was terrifying, but at least it was quiet.

As Chris’ legs ascended, the lazy fuckers died out, and the workaholics took over. It was mostly a strangely uncomfortable, stinging, pins and needles-like sensation that he had trouble fully describing, but it was punctuated several times a day by bright blooms of excruciating pain that felt like electric shocks zinging up and down his legs, up into his lower back, and curling around the crests of his pelvis – almost like somebody was holding a lit match to his spinal cord.

“That’s not actually that bad a metaphor for what happened,” Len said gently when Chris told him so.

_How comforting,_ Chris swallowed back.

The only thing that made the pain in any way bearable was a hardcore painkiller called kumaricet. Len’s eyes were as stern as Chris had ever seen them when he said that his number one goal in the short term was to get Chris the fuck _off_ opioids, but they softened when he said he understood that the pain was really unmanageable without the drug, and so a slow wean was really the only viable option.

Chris hated the nausea and fogginess that kumaricet brought him, so he tried to use it as sparingly as he could manage. But pain made him stupid and desperate, and “as sparingly as he could manage” was still regrettably frequent.

The other major problem was food.

Chris had lost more than thirteen kilos in the five months since the Narada. Part of that, admittedly, was that he couldn’t exercise yet and was losing muscle mass as things naturally atrophied, but the larger part was that swallowing most things other than water sent him careening into panic attacks.

It didn’t make much sense to Chris. His memory from the Narada itself was really patchy, and while he remembered the _fact_ that they’d used a Centaurian slug on him, he _didn’t_ have any conscious memory of actually swallowing the damn thing. But his body apparently did, because the first time he actually attempted to eat solid food in the hospital, he very quickly wound up gasping for air, gripping at Phil’s shirt with tears in his eyes and an inescapable feeling of dread.

When this didn’t get better after he went home, Len reluctantly put him on parenteral nutrition, but also insisted that Chris “talk to someone about this.”

Medical vernacular for “see a therapist.”

Liz Dehner had already come to see him twice. Phil and Len had both immediately agreed that she was _absolutely_ the person Chris needed to see, but when she showed up, the fact that she looked about Chekov’s age gave Chris pause.

In their first session, Dr. Dehner had gotten only so far as talking to Chris about the important people in his life – the triad of Phil, Jim, and Len. Number One and Erin were still very important people to him, of course, and they always would be, but they were both off-planet, not daily staples of his life. if Chris were to think of family, those three men sprang to mind before anybody else.

“Hmm,” Dr. Dehner said toward the end of the session.

_“Hmm,_ what?” Chris asked.

She shrugged contemplatively. “I find it interesting,” she said, “that your paths crossed with those of all three of these men at moments when, for one or both of you, something crucial was just beginning or ending, usually badly.” It was true. Chris met Phil a short time after leaving his shitty childhood environment, _and_ immediately after a fistfight. Chris met Len right after Len’s divorce. Each of the three times Chris met Jim, it was after some calamity in Jim’s life. “It’s almost as though crisis is a motivator for you to form connections with others,” she continued, which was a very therapist-y thing to say. “As though it makes it somehow easier for you to bond with other people.”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just how the chips fell,” he disputed her conclusion mildly, even as he weighed its validity in his mind.

Dr. Dehner smiled her enigmatic smile. “Funny the way our horizons meet, isn’t it?”

Their second session saw Chris grudgingly admit to feelings of frustration and vulnerability, plus a certain sense of body betrayal at his throat’s unwillingness to accept solid foods and a similar but different shame – though Chris stopped short of using that specific word – at his lower half’s lost utility, whether reparable or not. Dr. Dehner had just broached the topic of feelings of emasculation when Chris sighed heavily.

“Look, Dr. Dehner,” Chris said resignedly, feeling himself flush, “you’ll forgive me if I have a certain amount of difficulty talking about my feelings in that department.”

Dr. Dehner gave an inscrutable look. “Admiral, I work with military men in various degrees of emotional constipation all day, every day,” she said mildly. “Believe me, I’m used to it.”

“Then you’ll understand if that’s not exactly a subject I’d like to discuss,” Chris clarified.

“I understand perfectly,” Dr. Dehner answered. Chris let out a premature sigh of relief. “That doesn’t mean we can ignore it.”

Chris rolled his head back in frustration, pinching a corner of the duvet between his fingers and rubbing them together.

“Sitting on these feelings without talking about them isn’t going to expedite your recovery,” she said gently. “Physically _or_ psychologically. If your goal is, as you said, to get within striking distance of the life you used to have as fast as possible, then these are feelings you’re going to have to face, even when they hurt or embarrass or anger you.”

Chris sighed again. She had a point. He nodded in acknowledgement.

“So. Tell me about your sex life.”

Chris buried his head in his hands and groaned.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris’ pain was at about a seven. It hurt like _hell,_ but he could hack it, if he had to.

As if on autopilot, he rolled over in bed as best he was able and reached for a kumaricet self-admin hypo on his nightstand.

He knew what was coming with this fucking drug. He’d sleep the rest of the evening away, and what parts of the evening he _was_ awake, he’d be incredibly queasy and not particularly lucid. But it would also let him float away into that blissful cloud of numb where nothing hurt, which was worth it, _totally worth it, just do it._

A little blinking light flicked on in Chris’ brain. _But you just said you could hack it._

Chris looked at the hypo, absolutely dreading how bad it was going to make him feel, and at the same time feeling a complete, full-body compulsion to inject himself with the stuff.

Len’s stern voice started echoing in Chris’ mind: _This is some of the most addictive shit I can legally give you. You_ have _to be careful with it._

Chris didn’t need it for his pain right then. But he _needed_ it. But he _didn’t._ But he _did,_ oh god, he really, _really_ did.

Something in the deepest, loudest part of his mind started screaming: _This is how addiction starts._

Terrified, he chucked the hypo across the room, where it landed with a _thunk._

Phil poked his head into the room, saw the beads of sweat on Chris’ forehead, and came up to clutch his hand. Chris gripped right back.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Phil murmured, running a hand through Chris’ hair. “Okay, sweetheart. Okay. Breathe through with me. C’mon, Chris. Breathe with me.”

Chris took a couple of breaths before rasping, “I can’t take kumaricet anymore.”

Phil’s eyes grew wide. “Why not? What happened?” His physician mode kicked in, keen eyes scanning Chris clinically, looking for signs of anaphylaxis.

Chris just shook his head vigorously. “Can’t. _Won’t._ Call Len. Anything – anything else. Something…something that’s not habit-forming.” Chris made desperate eye contact with Phil, feeling a tremor where their hands connected and not sure from whom it originated. “Phil, _please.”_

Phil looked deeply into Chris’ eyes, and Chris watched his expression change as he started to figure it out. “God. _God._ Okay. Okay, Chris, I get it, I’ve got you. I’ll call Len right now. No more kumaricet.” Phil suddenly pulled him in and pressed a fierce kiss to Chris’ hairline. “Thank you for telling me. _So_ much.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The clock read 0239. The house was quiet and dark. Phil’s breathing was deep and even next to Chris, but Chris also knew him well enough to know he wasn’t asleep.

Which was convenient, as Chris wasn’t either, and this was a conversation that was probably easier had under the cover of darkness than with a spotlight on it.

Damn Liz to hell for putting the idea of talking about this in his head.

“Hey,” he said quietly, nudging.

“Hmm,” Phil answered. “Y’okay? Y’need somethin’?” His voice was soft and drowsy.

“Question,” Chris said.

Phil’s silhouette nodded.

Chris traced a nonsense pattern over Phil’s palm as it lay open on the mattress between their pillows. “Are we…Jesus. Okay. Will we still be…I mean, after the next surgery, I know not _now,_ but…can… _god.”_

“Chris,” Phil interrupted gently. “It’s me. Just say it.”

“Sex,” Chris blurted inelegantly.

“Ah,” Phil acknowledged.

Chris closed his eyes, even in the darkness. “Can you…can you tell me what this all means for us going forward?” he asked quickly. “Sexually?”

He felt Phil’s hand go into his hair, fingers threading and stroking. Chris unconsciously leaned into the touch. “Are you looking for an answer from Phil, or from Dr. Boyce?”

“Dr. Boyce, first.”

Phil took a breath. “Okay. Well, the shitty thing is that we’re working with a lot of unknowns right now,” he began. “Remyelination is Len’s wheelhouse, not mine, and even he admits that he’s pulling a certain amount of this out of his ass. But I’ve seen the sims, I know the science, I know where we are with your injuries, and most of all, I know what Len’s capable of. You have literally the _only_ surgeon I’d _ever_ trust working on your nerves here. Your chances of getting most of your sexual function back are excellent.”

“Most?”

Phil stroked his hair. “If I could get more specific, I would. But yes, a good chance for most.”

Chris swallowed. That sounded…well, good, but not. “What about the answer from Phil?”

Phil shuffled his body a little closer to Chris’. “We’ll figure it out,” he said confidently. “I won’t lie – it might take a little while. We might have to relearn how to do things we used to know how to do, or come up with new ideas. But we _will_ figure it out, I promise.” Phil grinned a little. “Might even be fun. Aren’t you the one with a couple commendations for ingenuity in your file?”

Even in the dark, with only the very dim streetlight filtering in through the window, Chris felt himself flush. “Will it feel the same?”

Phil’s hand continued to stroke his hair. “Probably not exactly the same, no,” he said reluctantly.

Chris was expecting that, but the confirmation still caused a little dart of pain to lance his heart. Closing his eyes, he leaned in and knocked his forehead against Phil’s gently. “Sorry I broke,” he said softly.

Phil tugged gently on his hair. “Hey. No. You didn’t _break._ You got hurt.”

Chris rolled his eyes slightly and gave a snort of self-disgust. “Your boyfriend’s dick doesn’t work right anymore and he can’t blow you without having a panic attack. I _broke,_ Phil.”

Phil was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. “I never told you, did I? About the day I knew I was in love with you?”

Chris shook his head.

Even in the dim lighting, Phil’s soft smile was evident. “We’d known each other for a couple of years by that point,” he began. “I had a crush on you right from the moment I laid eyes on you, those pretty eyes and golden curls…but I’d been trying so, _so_ hard to stop myself from totally falling for you. Bi boys who fall in love with straight boys just get their hearts broken in the end, y’know?”

A little ache settled under Chris’ heart. Phil continued.

“It was the day of your Kobayashi Maru. Remember that? Even though it was a sim, you were so broken up about it, the idea of losing people you commanded, you cared about.”

“I remember,” Chris murmured.

“We were sitting on the couch in our dorm,” Phil continued, “and I told you a stupid joke to try to make you laugh.”

Chris smiled. “The mermaid who wore seashells because she grew out of her B shells.”

Phil shook his head a little in disbelief. “Okay, definitely did _not_ expect you to remember that from _thirty years ago.”_

Chris chuckled. “It was funny.”

Phil smiled. “You laughed at it then, too,” he continued, “and I looked over, and you were smiling so big that you had these little crinkles by your eyes, right here,” he swept a thumb gently out from the crease of Chris’ eye. “And when I saw you smile like that, my heart just landed in my throat.”

Chris swallowed thickly. He knew the feeling.

“There wasn’t much use lying to myself anymore,” Phil said softly. “Not after that.” He paused significantly, then continued. “My point is, _that’s_ what I fell in love with. Your smile and your laugh and your mind and your passion and your kindness and your wit and your strength.” He smiled. “Your dick is lovely, true, but it is not why I spent all that time pining after something I never thought I'd have. It's not why I cherish the smell of you on my clothes and the feel of your toes against my shins at night. And it's not why I'm here _now,_ when you're at a low point." Phil leaned in a little closer. “I love you, Chris. I’ve loved you for more of our lives than I haven’t. Centaurian slugs ain't got _shit_ on this. It’s not going to stop.”

The ache under Chris’ heart got a little bit stronger. He took Phil’s chin in his hand and kissed him, then cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry I put you through so much hell,” he murmured. “I know I’m…uncommonly difficult to love.”

Phil shook his head. “Easy as breathing,” he countered. “And never not worth it. Not even for a second."

Chris wrapped an arm around Phil’s waist and leaned in so Phil’s chin rested on the crown of Chris’ head. They were silent for a moment.

“You know what made me realize I was in love with you?” Chris finally said.

He felt Phil smile. “What?”

“We were having pizza in my apartment,” Chris said bemusedly. “You leaned over me and snorted when you laughed at something on TV. And I knew.”

There were several beats. “I snorted. And _that_ was the moment you realized you loved me?” Phil clarified dryly. “Big time revelations about sexual orientation and the nature of your closest friendship from a _snort?”_

Chris just nodded smugly into Phil’s neck.

Phil just shook his head and nuzzled him. “You’re such a fucking romantic, Chrissy.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In retrospect, Chris was just glad she picked a comparatively good day. Though, if he had still been on kumaricet, he wouldn’t have been entirely sure she wasn’t a hallucination.

“Hi, Chris,” Becca said, standing in the entryway of Phil’s living room.

For several seconds, he just sat there, looking at her with a befuddled look on his face. “Hello, Becca,” he finally said, slowly, as if the words made no sense.

She pursed her lips and sat next to him. Her hair was a little longer than it had been when they’d last seen one another, and she had laugh lines where she hadn’t before. A little gold band was on her left hand, too. Chris didn’t know how to feel about that.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Been better,” Chris answered honestly.

Becca nodded. “Listen,” she began, “when I heard about everything that happened…” She gestured nonspecifically upward. “…up there, it made me think about everything that happened between us.” She bent her head, closing her eyes tightly. “I couldn’t stand watching the news, thinking about how hurt you were.”

Chris stayed silent and let her talk, feeling his heart give an odd thud.

“I’m not happy with the way you and I ended things,” she said frankly. “No, actually, let me rephrase that: I’m not happy with the way _I_ ended things with us.”

Chris shook his head. “I know why you did it, Bec.”

“I don’t regret the divorce, Chris,” Becca clarified. “As godawful painful as it was, it was the right call to make, and I think anybody who knows either of us would agree with that. You weren’t made for Earth, and I wasn’t made for space. It was a good decision. But I made a lot of mistakes when I filed, and they hurt you in ways I really regret. I took the coward’s way out. I went to a lawyer and then straight to my parents’ house. I didn’t take your comms. I hid from you. I did everything I could to avoid seeing you, so I wouldn’t have to explain myself to you, and that was just wrong.” Becca leaned over and put her hand on Chris’. “I hurt you, it was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Chris had had a vice grip on his heart for the seven years since Becca had filed for divorce, and in the many years since he’d last seen her, he’d kind of stopped noticing it was there. Now, though, he felt that vice slowly, slowly start to loosen. He rested his hand on hers, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Becca.”

Her lips curled into a sweet smile. After a moment, she leaned back in her chair, and that sweet smile turned sly.

“So, you and Phil, huh?”

Chris let out a reluctant sigh as Becca’s smirk grew.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t know what time it was, but the entire house was quiet and dark. Phil was to his left, curled in a fetal ball, sleeping, as he usually did, like the dead.

And Chris was thirsty.

Not just in an _I could use some water_ way, but in that way that’s unique to waking up in the middle of the night, that _I want to guzzle an entire liter of water and if I don’t get the chance I might scream with desperation_ way.

But he really, _really_ didn’t want to wake Phil. Phil, who had gone without sleep for days when Chris came back from the Narada, who was constantly waking up early and staying up late to help Chris get from one place to another, who lost sleep breathing through painful moments with Chris and getting him wet washcloths and new emesis basins when it got to be too much…Phil needed to sleep. Chris’ conscience – or else his stubbornness – couldn’t reconcile waking him up for a glass of water, like a four-year-old might a parent.

Chris craned his neck around. His chair was in reach. If he could maneuver out of the bed and into the chair, he could make his way into the kitchen. How to do that without waking Phil, Chris wasn’t entirely sure, but he was certainly willing to try.

Rolling onto his back took five minutes, which should’ve been his first clue that this was a bad idea. Chris pushed himself up on his arms; he could sit fairly comfortably now, if he had enough back support, which he definitely did _not_ sitting up in bed like this. There went the electric shocks again, zinging up his right thigh and stabbing him in the lumbar spine. He made a fist in the duvet and tried to keep from screaming until it subsided.

Reaching over, he grabbed the arm of the chair and pulled it toward him, then set to work moving his legs so they dangled off the side of the bed – first the right, then the left – and then, another dart of pain.

Behind him, Phil snuffled gently. His palm unconsciously reached out, trying to make contact with Chris’ body and meeting nothing but the fitted sheet. Chris tried to keep his breathing calm.

If he braced himself on the arms of the chair, he figured, he could push himself up, turn himself around, and then sit, right? That should be simple enough. Most of his weight would be on his arms anyway. Taking a deep breath, making sure his grip on the arms of the chair was solid, Chris pressed himself up…

…and immediately crashed to the floor in a heap.

_The brakes,_ he thought belatedly. _I didn’t set the goddamn brakes._

Consumed by frustration, Chris smacked the palm of his hand against the hardwood, feeling the sting reverberate through his arm.

A pair of hands curled around Chris’ biceps. _Great,_ Chris thought, _I woke Phil up,_ but no – these didn’t feel like Phil’s hands. Slightly larger, a little softer.

Without a word, Jim Kirk slung Chris’ arm around his neck and stood up with him, bearing all of his weight and settling him into his chair.

_Of course._ Jim was staying with Chris and Phil while Len was in Quebec for a conference.

Chris put his head in his hand when he settled into the chair. He felt humiliated – vulnerable, frustrated, in pain, and now, being rescued by his goddamn _protégé._ It was the kind of embarrassment he’d been hoping to avoid by waking Phil up, magnified exponentially.

“Where to, sir?” Jim asked politely, steering them out of the room.

Chris pointed vaguely. “Kitchen. Need some water.”

Jim poured Chris a glass, handed it to him, then poured one for himself.

“D’you remember when I collapsed on the transporter pad on the Vaughan?” he asked quietly, without looking up. As always, the word _Tarsus_ did not cross Jim’s lips.

“I didn’t know _you_ did,” Chris said softly. Jim had been in such an altered state at that time – hurting, terrified, vulnerable, frustrated, confused…it wouldn’t have surprised him at all if he’d blocked that memory, or never generated one to begin with.

“I do,” Jim said quietly, sipping his water. “I remember you telling me it was okay. That I was safe. You picked me up and carried me to the gurney.” Chris stayed silent, watching as Jim blinked. “I never would’ve asked for it, but I needed help, and you saw that and helped me.” He leaned over and refilled Chris’ glass. “Simple.”

Chris looked at the man in front of him and his heart clenched slightly. “Simple,” he echoed, shaking his head a little. “Thank you, son.”

Jim just smiled a little smile.

They stayed silent at the table until after sunrise.


	19. Chapter 19

Remyelinating Chris’ nerves went ridiculously smoothly, far more so than any of them anticipated.

“You know me,” Len grumbled from Chris’ bedside as he lay in Medical, “I’m a chronic pessimist, but even I’ve gotta admit…this looks promising, Admiral. _Damn_ promising.”

“I never had any doubts, Len,” Chris mumbled, tongue still thick with an anesthesia hangover. Phil smiled, then looked up at Len with a mixture of fondness and deep admiration. It made Chris wonder if he himself looked at Jim that way. 

Then Chris fell back asleep.

A few weeks later, Chris and Phil headed to the shuttleport to see Jim and Len off. The Enterprise was, at long last, ready for relaunch. Between the trauma she’d suffered on her first trip out and the newness and unprecedented youth of her captain, Starfleet had decided to send her up on short-term missions only for now – one month or less – and nothing outside of rapid comm range with HQ. Jim rolled his eyes a little at the parameters, but grudgingly agreed that the comm guidelines were probably good, so Phil could keep Len apprised of Chris’ progress. And also maybe so he himself could pick Chris’ brain on command decisions when the need arose.

Chris suspected (hoped?) that the need would arise with some frequency, and not because he didn’t trust the kid.

Now, Jim stood in front of Chris, fidgeting with the hem on his command tunic. It reminded Chris irresistibly of his own nervous tic, and it made his heart do a funny flip. “Any last minute words of wisdom for me?” Jim asked anxiously.

“Trust your crew. Trust yourself. Respect the chair.” Chris smiled a little. “You’ve got this.”

Jim smiled back, then saluted Chris. “I’ll take good care of her, sir.” 

Chris jerked his head a little. “Get down here.”

Jim brought himself to Chris’ eye level, and Chris shook his hand, pulling him into a one-armed embrace.

“I know you will, son.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris’ physical therapist’s name was Susan, and she’d come highly recommended by an orthopedist friend of Phil and Len’s. She was about Jim’s age and seemed to live in spandex and a ponytail, like she’d always just come from a yoga class. When Chris first met her, he immediately thought he wouldn’t be able to stand her and her goddamn cheerfulness for long; a single session that left him in utter _agony_ served to reinforce the principle.

However, much as had happened with Liz Dehner, it turned out that Susan was actually quite down to earth and pragmatic, under that layer of relentless optimism. She understood Chris’ frustrations, she started to learn his quirks, and could quickly read when Chris was having a good, bad, or indifferent day. As much as her sunshiny outlook grated on Chris’ nerves sometimes (pun unintended), it came back to him periodically when things felt shitty, and it actually _helped._

One day, Chris said, he’d stop underestimating Phil’s opinion. 

“I’ll hold my breath,” Phil snorted when Chris said this one night.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris woke up on a Sunday and smelled coffee and berries and burnt bacon and heard the faint sound of Phil’s whistling in the kitchen. He blinked, running a hand over his face, wiping sleep from his eyes…and then felt it.

His legs felt their new normal since this last surgery – heavy, tingly, weak.

But his left ankle. 

Chris scrambled to pull the covers back, looking at his skin. It looked…unremarkable. Like an ankle. 

Tentatively, he pressed. 

_And felt it._

No pain, no tingling, no pins and needles.

Just…normal.

He tried another spot. Pressure. Maybe a little less acute than if he’d pressed on, say, his arm, but _pressure_. Where previously there had been none.

_“Phil!”_ he called.

Phil darted back to the bedroom. “What? You okay?”

Chris just looked up at him with a look of wonder. “My ankle,” he breathed. “I can _feel_ my _ankle._ ” 

Phil knelt at the foot of the bed, examining it, pressing on it just as Chris had done, turning it this way and that, then looked up at Chris.

“Pain?”

Chris shook his head. 

“Tingling? Numbness? Anything?”

“Pressure,” Chris said, slightly awed. “Pressure, like…like it’s _supposed_ to be _._ ”

A smile started to spread over Phil’s face. “Are you serious?” 

Chris grinned and nodded, and then found himself with an ample armful of Phil kissing the breath out of him.

“You can feel your  _ankle_ ,” Phil gushed between kisses. “God, Chris, you can _feel_ your _ankle!_ I have to comm Len; he’s gonna be so pleased.”

When he went to PT that afternoon, Chris told Susan, who actually _cheered,_ and then spent the entire session on both of his ankles. It hurt like a bitch, especially on the ankle that now had full sensation, but Chris was beyond caring, because _he was coming back it was all coming back it worked it worked even if only a little bit it fucking worked._

Late that night, when Phil was getting ready for bed, Chris got a text comm on a subspace channel from one James T. Kirk. 

_heard about ur ankle_ , it said, because of course Jim texted like that.

There was a pause while the rest of the message came in. 

_i dare u to do better._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Susan was massaging his calf muscle, and Phil was on a comm consult with Medical, when Chris said, out of the blue, “I want to walk. Today.”

Susan looked up at him. He could see the hesitation in her usually optimistic eyes. “I don’t know if we’re _quite_ there yet, Chris. Soon, maybe, but – ”

“Today,” Chris said stubbornly. “Maybe I can’t support all my weight independently yet, maybe I’m still weak, but I can make it a couple of steps. I _know_ I can.”

“This is a marathon, not a sprint,” Susan said gently. “I don’t want you to push yourself too hard too fast.”

“ _I_ want to push myself,” Chris responded, before his voice got very quiet. “I want to do better.”

Susan sat back on her haunches, looked up at him critically, and a slow smile started to creep over her face. Chris looked right back at her, challenging.

“We stop when I, the physical therapist, say we stop, no matter how many stripes you’ve got on your sleeve. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“And your partner helps.”

“Got it.” 

“And you tell me the _nanosecond_ you feel like you’re even _approaching_ your tolerance.” 

“Understood.”

“You sure about this?” 

Chris nodded. “I’m sure.”

Susan grinned and popped up off the floor like a piece of bread out of a toaster. “Let’s do this.”

It took about twenty minutes for Chris to go three meters, with Susan supporting one side of his body and Phil the other. His steps were short, inelegant, and extremely weak, and he was left a sweating mess at the end.

He felt more alive than he had since before the Narada.

Late that night, he sent a subspace text comm to Jim.

_I walked today. Your move, genius._

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A year out from the Narada, and six months out from remyelination, Chris was recovering very, very well.

His sensation was returning, slowly but surely. He wasn’t completely pain-free; Len conceded that Chris would probably have some degree of neuropathy for the rest of his life – but it was manageable. More nagging, annoying discomfort than the blinding, all-encompassing pain he’d been dealing with before. With the return of sensation came a return of strength; Susan was delighted with his progress in PT. Again, it wasn’t complete; he still had some weakness, particularly on his right – but he could walk again, with a cane. 

He’d started doing some work from home when Len thought it was appropriate, but Phil had still been mother henning him to rest, which had prevented him from falling completely into workaholic mode. Now, though, he’d been back in the office for a couple of months – a cushier corner office with a powerwall and a view of the Golden Gate; that was the admiralty for you – and he got to indulge his workaholic tendencies as much as he pleased.

It was normal, in a year that had been altogether _not_ , and Chris was pleased about that.

Chris was most of the way through an expense report – he’d been right; the admiralty was about ninety percent paperwork, and _god_ it was dull – when his terminal chimed with a new message.

_Admiral A. Marcus will convene a special tribunal re: Captain J. Kirk and the Enterprise for 1000 hours today. All Earth-based admirals to attend unless otherwise specified._

Chris frowned. “What the hell?” he muttered aloud.

Then he saw the extra note from Marcus meant just for him.

_Chris – sit this one out. – ALM_

It was well-established that those words didn’t mean anything good, particularly coming from Marcus, and Chris couldn’t figure out their justification. Last he’d heard, Jim and the Enterprise alike were doing fine; he’d just had a look over Jim’s Captain’s log the other night, right after they’d hit Spacedock again. Jim had mentioned a planet they’d surveyed, something about a volatile volcano, a threat of destruction…nothing even a little bit out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing that would’ve made Chris on guard for Marcus to pull any shit. 

Chris looked back at the Nibiru survey again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything – he hadn’t – but there was now another report.

This one from Spock.

Which, in Spock’s prim, formal vocabulary, painted an altogether different picture of the events that transpired on Nibiru that day.

Chris could feel a vein in his forehead _thump, thump, thumping_ as he read Spock’s testimony.

_God fucking dammit, Jim._

It had been a bad enough thing a year ago, when Jim Kirk, _cadet_ , had manipulated a _training scenario_ in order to achieve a more advantageous outcome. It was _very, very much another thing_ when Jim Kirk, _starship captain_ , manipulated the very real destiny of a very real pre-warp civilization for a more advantageous outcome. 

And then lied about it. 

Chris knew exactly how bad this was and exactly what the consequences would be if he wasn’t at that tribunal. This was going to sink Jim’s career.

Gritting his teeth, Chris sent comms to both Jim and to Spock, telling them to be in his office in fifteen minutes. Maybe, _maybe_ , that would be enough time for Chris himself to calm down. Then he grabbed his cane and headed for Marcus’ office, braced for a fight.

Chris calmed his temper enough just to be cordial to Marcus’ yeoman, who let him in without a word.

“Admiral Marcus,” Chris greeted neutrally.

Marcus looked up from where he was donning his jacket for the tribunal, saw it was Chris speaking, then sighed. “Look, Chris, I don’t have time for this – ”

Chris steamrolled him. “Sir, respectfully, I’d like to request to attend this morning’s tribunal regarding Captain Kirk.”

Marcus was shaking his head before Chris had even finished the sentence. “It’s out of the question.”

“I was his recruiter, his academic advisor, and his CO. I should be there.”

Marcus walked by him, on his way out of the office, and Chris followed. “Didn’t we have a conversation _just last year_ about the fact that you were unable to offer an objective opinion on Kirk?”

“I’m the person who’s responsible for him even being _in_ Starfleet. I should be there. I have a perspective to lend the tribunal that you won’t be able to – ”

“Oh, _cut the shit_ , Chris,” Marcus snapped, rounding on Chris. “Look, however much you seem to like living in this fantasy world, let me enlighten you: you’re _not_ his advisor, you’re _not_ his CO, you’re not even his _mentor_ anymore. At this point, you’re essentially his father, and you’re _sure as shit_ no more capable of being objective on the subject of Kirk’s behavior than you were a year ago.”

Chris couldn’t help himself. He _really_ couldn’t.

“A year ago, right. You mean, right before he saved the entire fucking Federation?”

Marcus’ eyes hardened. “The decision is final, Chris. You’re not attending this tribunal. End of discussion.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, what if I let you tell him the result of the board’s decision. Would that appease you at all?”

_No_. Then, a thought. _Shit_. “He doesn’t even know this is happening, does he?” Chris breathed.

Marcus looked at him dumbly. “Why would he need to know until a decision’s been made?”

Chris’ glare at Marcus could’ve frozen mercury. 

Chris didn’t wait for a dismissal. He just stormed back to his office, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. Noor gave him a pointed look.

He sat. He waited. He read both reports again. He tried, very hard, to keep in mind what Len had told him about what letting his blood pressure rise would do to his still-healing kidneys.

His terminal chimed.

_Re: Captain James T. Kirk: Demotion to cadet status. To be returned to Starfleet Academy for completion of training. Pending satisfactory completion of Academy coursework, may reenter the service as an ensign._

_Re: Commander S’chn T’gai Spock: To retain rank. Reassigned to USS Bradbury, chief science officer. Eligible for advancement to executive officer after completion of one year’s probation._

_Re: USS Enterprise: To remain in drydock pending new command team._

Chris pounded a fist of fury onto his desk.

This was it: the worst case scenario. Jim wasn’t a captain anymore; Jim and Spock weren’t a team anymore; the Enterprise was up for grabs, and in light of how this had all shaken out, Chris highly, _highly_ doubted he’d even have any say in who they gave the Enterprise to now.

Chris’ terminal chimed again, this time with a message from Rick Barnett.

_It was exactly as bad as you think it was. Be glad you weren’t there; I damn near punched Komack. I’m so sorry._

Then one from Heihachiro Nogura.

_I tried, Chris. I’m sorry._

Then from Caroline Paris.

_Tell your boy I’m sorry. (Then smack him upside the head for me.)_

Chris was about to bury his face in his hands when Spock and Jim filed in, in their dress uniforms, standing at perfect attention in front of his desk. 

Chris spared Spock a brief glance; the Vulcan looked as impassive as ever. Then he turned to Jim.

_I trusted you. I knew you were great. I know you_ are _great. Where did I go wrong with you?_

Chris picked up the PADD with Jim’s Captain’s log pulled up on it.

“Uneventful,” he said neutrally.

“Admiral?” Jim asked.

“That’s the way you described the survey of Nibiru in your Captain’s log,” Chris clarified.

“Yes, sir; I didn’t want to waste your time going over the details,” Jim said smoothly. 

_I bet you didn’t_. “Yeah, tell me more about this volcano. Data says it was highly volatile; if it were to erupt, it would wipe out the planet.”

Jim inclined his head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t, sir.”

Chris couldn’t stop himself. “Something tells me it won’t.” 

Jim’s voice slowed a little. “Well, sir, _volatile_ is all relative; maybe our…data was off.”

_Unbefuckinglievable. You just keep going, don’t you?_ “Or maybe it didn’t erupt because Mr. Spock detonated a cold fusion device inside it, right after a civilization that’s _barely invented the wheel_ happened to see a _starship_ rising out of their ocean.” Chris turned to Spock. “That is pretty much how you described it, is it not?”

Spock got so far as “Admiral – ”

_“You filed a report?”_ Jim said accusatorily, sounding for all the world like a jilted lover. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I incorrectly assumed that you would be truthful in your Captain’s log,” Spock said primly.

“Yeah, I _would’ve_ been if I didn’t have to _save your life_ ,” Jim snapped.

“A fact for which I am immeasurably grateful, and the very reason I felt it necessary to take responsibility for the actions – ”

Jim scoffed. “Take responsibility, yeah,” he interrupted. “That’d be so noble, _Pointy_ , if you weren’t also throwing me under the bus.”

Chris felt his face melt into a flat look of _I don’t have time for this shit._

“Pointy?” Spock said, with that hint of irritation that only a Vulcan can really pull off. “Is that a derogatory reference to – ”

_“Gentlemen,”_ Chris interrupted, rising from his desk. “Starfleet’s mandate is to explore and observe, not to _interfere_.”

“Had the mission gone according to plan, Admiral, the indigenous species would never have been aware of our interference.”

_…Jesus, you and Jim are a match made in heaven, aren’t you?_ “That’s a technicality.”

“I am Vulcan, sir; we embrace technicality.”

Chris felt that vein in his forehead going again. _Kidneys, Chris. Kidneys._ “You givin’ me attitude, Spock?”

“I am expressing multiple attitudes simultaneously, sir,” Spock answered with just the barest glaze of ice on the surface of his tone. “To which are you referring?”

_You little shit_. “Out.” Spock didn’t move, so Chris nodded to the door. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

Jim shot Spock one more scathing glance out of the corner of his eye before Spock headed out of the room. Chris stared out the window, honestly not even sure where to begin with Jim.

“D’you have any idea what a pain in the ass you are?” he finally said. _Well, that’s a good start_.

Jim nodded shortly. “I think so, sir.”

“So tell me what you did wrong. What’s the lesson to be learned here?”

Jim paused. “Never trust a Vulcan,” he deadpanned.

Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his brain, Chris remembered Phil making a smartass remark that Chris was “raising a son _exactly like you_.” At the time, Chris had told Phil to fuck off. Now it was sinking in how right Phil had been, and Chris hated himself a little for it.

“See, you can’t even answer the question.” Chris turned to face Jim. _“You lied_. On an _official report_. You _lied_. You think the rules don’t apply to you because you _disagree_ with them.”

“That’s why you talked me into signing up in the first place,” Jim protested. “It’s why you gave me your ship.” 

That, unfortunately, was partially correct, but Chris wasn’t about to say so. “I gave you my ship because I saw greatness in you.” He paused, shaking his head. “And now, I see you haven’t got an _ounce_ of humility.”

Jim faced Chris, his expression approaching one of desperation. “What was I supposed to do, let Spock die?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I don’t think I am, sir,” Jim pressed. “What would you have done?” 

“I wouldn’t have risked my first officer’s life _in the first place!”_ Chris exploded. “You were supposed to survey a planet, not _alter its destiny!_ You violated a dozen Starfleet regulations and almost got everyone under your command _killed!”_

“Except I didn’t!” Jim cried, and Chris could almost _see_ the point flying high over Jim’s head. “You know how many crewmembers I’ve lost since I became Captain, sir?”

“That’s your problem – ”

“Not one!”

“ – you think you’re infallible – ”

_“Not one!”_

“ – you think you can’t make a mistake – it’s a _pattern_ with you!” Chris was yelling now. “That rules are for _other people – ”_

“Some should be,” Jim had the gall to say.

“ – and what’s worse is you using _blind luck_ to justify your playing god!”

Jim’s hard expression cracked the tiniest bit. He’d never seen Chris this angry before. _Not pretty, is it, son?_

“Given the circumstances, this has been brought to Admiral Marcus’ attention,” Chris continued. “He convened a special tribunal to which I was _not_ invited. You understand what Starfleet regulations mandate be done at this point?” 

The question was rhetorical, but Jim’s face started falling, and falling fast. _He knew_.

“They’ve taken the Enterprise away from you,” Chris said bluntly. “They’re sending you back to the Academy.”

Jim looked at Chris, slack-jawed, eyes a little shiny. “Admiral,” he said softly, “listen…”

“No, I’m not going to listen,” Chris snapped.

“I can justify – ”

“Why should I listen? I’m not going to listen,” Chris continued.

“I understand regulation, but every decision I’ve made – ”

“ _You_ don’t listen to anybody _but yourself_.” That shut Jim up. “No, I can’t _listen_. You _don’t_ comply with the rules, you _don’t_ take responsibility for _anything_ , and you _don’t respect the chair.”_

In his periphery, Chris could see a faint little tremor in Jim’s body as the news was sinking in.

“You know why?” Chris asked rhetorically. “Because you’re not ready for it.”

Jim looked as dangerously close to tears as Chris had ever seen him, as he broke eye contact, looked at the floor, and swallowed audibly.

“Permission to leave, sir?” he asked in a tight whisper.

Chris nodded his assent. Jim left, looking very much like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

Sighing, Chris walked back around his desk and sat, massaging his aching leg with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. Then, because apparently this was _do not leave Chris Pike with even one moment to himself_ day, his terminal chimed.

Chris shot it a glare before opening the message.

It was Marcus, that dick. 

_You were always supposed to be in the stars anyway. – ALM_

Attached were orders for Admiral Christopher Pike to resume command of the Enterprise.

The idea materialized in Chris’ head before he’d even finished reading the order. He grabbed his cane and marched right down to Marcus’, storming right by the yeoman trying to intercept him at the door. He barged in, not giving Marcus a breath of pause to greet or forestall him.

“As commissioned commander of the USS Enterprise, I hereby invoke my right to choose my own first officer and select James T. Kirk,” Chris said in a single breath.

When the words were out, Chris realized he hadn’t given this a damn bit of forethought. Also that he didn’t have even a shred of doubt that it was the right choice.

Marcus looked up at him over a glass of something alcoholic. It was barely noon. “Are you out of your mind, Pike?” he asked calmly.

Chris raised his eyebrows. “ _Me,_ out of my mind? _You’re_ the one who signed off on giving her back to me.” 

“Watch your tone, Chris. You’re flirting with insubordination.”

“You and I are the same rank now. _Alex_.”

Marcus raised an indignant eyebrow. Chris kept talking.

“Look. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s see you’ve got point after point about my relationship with Kirk. Fine. But even you’re not going to argue with me about what he’s already given this organization – this planet – this _galaxy._ He’s saved _billions_ of lives, and that’s a lowball figure. I don’t know what the hell else Jim Kirk has to do to prove to you that he’s the best of the best _of the best_ , but for my sake? I believe in him. Period.” Chris paused, letting out a breath. “If you trust me enough to hand the flagship over to me, then you need to trust me enough to pick the person best qualified to serve on her. And whatever your opinion of him, I’m telling you right now: that’s Kirk.”

Marcus glared for a long, long moment. Then, sighing, he picked up a PADD, shifted a few pieces of information around, and pressed his thumbprint to it, authorizing his request.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said lowly.

Chris just took the PADD and left.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

It didn’t take a lot of guesswork to figure out where Jim was.

Matter of fact, all it took was the knowledge that Jim was unlikely to go to O’Reilly’s right now, plus a call to Len in a Disappointed Father voice.

Len folded like a house of cards in about thirty seconds.

“Sunny and Rosy’s on Octavia,” he blurted in a frustrated tone. “You and I never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?” Chris said smoothly. “Pike out.”

Twenty minutes later, Chris walked in just in time to see a pretty brunette making gaga eyes at Jim, and Jim smiling back.

_Admiral Cockblock reporting for duty._

Chris unceremoniously parked himself between Jim and the girl, giving Jim an uncompromising _you have a boyfriend you little shit_ look.

Jim winced and looked away while Chris hooked his cane onto the lip of the bar.

“How did you find me?” Jim asked glumly. 

“I know you better than you think I do,” Chris answered enigmatically, nodding to the bartender for a drink. He looked back at Jim; he looked crestfallen.

“You know, the first time I found you was in a dive like this,” Chris said in deference to their longstanding No Mentioning Tarsus policy. “Remember that? Got your ass handed to you.”

Jim frowned disbelievingly. “No,” he mumbled.

“You don’t?”

“No, that’s not what _happened._ ”

Chris nearly laughed. “That was an _epic_ beating.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jim said stubbornly. 

“You had napkins hanging out of your nose, did you not?”

That got a smile out of Jim, and therefore out of Chris. “Yeah, that was a good fight,” Jim chuckled.

Chris shook his head a little. _“A good fight,”_ he repeated, swallowing back a sigh of frustration. “I think that’s your problem right there.”

Jim looked at him, and Chris looked back. This next news was going to smart no matter what; better to just get it over with.

“They gave her back to me,” Chris said gently. “The Enterprise.”

Jim looked away, turning his eyes back to his drink. A long pause settled between the two men. “Congratulations,” he finally said in a small voice. “Watch your back with that first officer, though.”

_Oh, kid, you have no idea._ Chris shook his head. “Spock’s not gonna be working with me. He’s been transferred. USS Bradbury.” He paused, watching this news settle over Jim, then broke the good news.

“You’re gonna be my first officer.”

Jim looked confused, but wondrous; like Christmas had come early and he didn’t know why.

“Marcus took some convincing,” Chris downplayed. “But every now and then, I can make a good case.”

Jim shook his head a little. “What did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Chris said simply. “That I believe in you. That if anybody deserves a second chance, it’s Jim Kirk.”

A small smile spread over Jim’s face. His eyes were dangerously glossy, and it made something soft bloom in Chris’ chest. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Jim said wetly.

Chris snickered softly. “That _is_ a first.” He smiled, taking a deep, quiet breath. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Chris’ comm picked that moment to go off. He flipped it open, then frowned down at the screen in mild puzzlement.

“Emergency session. Daystrom.” He looked to Jim. “That’s us.”

“Yeah,” Jim said softly.

Chris patted his shoulder. “Suit up.”


	20. Chapter 20

Chris didn’t really start paying attention to anything until Jim came into the conference room, an exasperated look on his face and a bit of a stomp in his step as he sat down next to Chris. Chris borderline expected him to fold his arms on the table and rest his chin on them like a petulant child.

He was about to ask what Jim was so pissy about, but then Spock walked in on the heels of Frank Abbott, wearing a uniquely Vulcan expression of emotional constipation, and, well, Chris could put two and two together.

Then Marcus called the meeting to order. Bombing in London. Forty-two dead. John Harrison. _What a generic name._ “Run this bastard down.” Right, got it.

“What’s in the bag?” Jim abruptly whispered to Chris, nodding to his terminal.

 _“James_ , not now,” Chris said lowly, admonishing, not punitive, just directive.

“It doesn’t seem odd to you that he’d target an archive?” Jim hissed back. “That’s like bombing a library.”

“Chris?” Marcus’ voice called. Chris looked over with wary eyes. “Everything okay there?”

Chris’ impulse was to make a face that looked like he swallowed a lemon. He barely restrained it. “Yes, sir,” he said politely. “Mr. Kirk is just acclimating to his new position as first officer.” Chris shot a pointed look at Jim, as if to say _watch it._

“You got something to say, Kirk, say it; tomorrow’s too late,” Marcus said flippantly.

Jim looked from Chris to Marcus; then, to Chris’ great surprise, said, “I’m fine, sir. My apologies.”

Marcus, of course, didn’t leave it be. “Spit it out, son. Don’t be shy.”

Jim paused, then shrugged. “Why the archive?” he asked. “All that information is public record. If he really wanted to damage Starfleet…this could just be the beginning.”

He had a point, Chris thought.

“The beginning of _what_ , Mr. Kirk?” Marcus demanded.

“Sir, in the event of an attack, protocol mandates that senior command gather captains and first officers at Starfleet HQ, right here…in this room…”

Chris watched as Jim trailed off, the light in his eyes shifting, like he was rapidly putting puzzle pieces together and didn’t like the result one bit. 

Spock was saying something about commandeering and warp capability, but Chris’ eyes stayed on Jim…until he saw the red light outside the window, flooding the conference room.

Jim stood to look closer, then flew around.

 _“CLEAR THE ROOM!”_ he screamed.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Phaser fire ripped through the window, shattering the glass. Chris dove under the conference table, making his way to a partition to put between him and the window, fumbling for his comm, and realizing too late, _fuck, my cane._

Jim was running full speed toward a weapons locker. Marcus appeared to have completely disappeared from sight. Spock was lugging wounded out of the line of fire as fast as he could. In his periphery, Chris watched Caroline Paris go down like a ton of bricks.

Finally, _finally_ , Chris wedged himself behind a metal divider under the desks and pulled his comm out.

“We need an air defense team!” he yelled. “Daystrom Conference Room!” 

Chris might’ve heard an “aye, sir” on the other end, but it was impossible to say for sure over the cacophony. Chris looked out and saw Jim, phaser rifle in hand. He also saw his cane, a few feet away.

He had been doing better, mobility-wise, but not _that_ well. He didn’t stand a shot in hell of walking two feet without his cane, let alone of running the hell out of here. So, slowly – painfully, terrifyingly slowly – he started to push himself over the floor, keeping his body as low as he could, counting on Jim keeping the fucker in the jump ship distracted.

He looked up, right at Jim, and then – _fire._

Chris was knocked back two hundred seventy degrees, flat on his back, and immediately knew this was worse than bad. He felt blood seeping into the fabric of his uniform, and _Jesus fuck_ it burned, and it was hard to breathe, so, _so_ damn hard to breathe, _can’t breathe, no air, no, no, not like this_ …

Spock’s arms hooked under his own and began pulling him away, propping him on a flat surface, and Chris’ vision was getting dark around the edges, hazy, blurry, like right after the Narada. He stared up at the ceiling of the conference room, eyes huge, and then frantically sought Spock’s eyes because _I don’t want to die looking at the ceiling of this room._

Spock was already on his comm, requesting a medical team immediately for life-threatening injuries, in that measured but incredibly urgent tone of his.

 _Jim_ , Chris thought, but lacked the breath to say his name. _Is Jim okay? I need Jim to be okay. Please, Jim, be okay._

Then, as he kept eye contact with Spock, a tear slipped down Chris’ cheek. _Phil. Love. I’m sorry. My fault. More time. We should’ve had more time._

And then…then, the firefight had stopped, and Jim was there, fallen to his knees, stripping off his dress uniform jacket and covering Chris with it, trying to keep his body warm as he succumbed to shock. He pressed his bare hand to Chris’ chest wound, pressing hard, cupping the back of Chris’ head with his other hand.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Jim was babbling, looking at Chris with those neon blue eyes, huge, scared, pleading, glistening. “You’re gonna be okay, Chris, we’re gonna get you help, you’re gonna be fine, it’s okay, you just have to stay awake, you have to stay with me, _please, please, Chris, please, stay with me, please, no, NO!”_

Jim looked up suddenly, toward the turbolifts. _“Bones, he’s not breathing!”_ he screamed.

_Aren’t I?_

Chris felt himself being moved, heard a panicky voice behind him scream _“Kirk to Boyce, it’s Chris, you’ve gotta come now!”_ and then let himself lose consciousness.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Chris woke up, it was unnaturally bright in the room.

His chest hurt like _hell_. 

He had tubes in his nostrils. _Oxygen_ , his brain helpfully filled in for him.

Phil was standing over him, eyes puffy and rimmed with red, and looked positively murderous, like he’d been to hell and back. 

 _“Christopher Vincent,”_ he grit out, “if I ever, _ever_ have to see you again in _mortal goddamn peril_ on an operating table because of some _bullshit_ a fucking _maniac_ did to you, I…” He stopped, swallowed, and his eyes shone with tears. “I _swear to god...”_

Phil sank onto Chris’ hospital bed, brought Chris’ hand to his lips, and kissed it, over and over again.

Chris couldn’t get his tongue to work for a moment, then finally did, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Love you.”

Phil blinked up at Chris, two tears sneaking out of his eyes, and flipped his comm. “Boyce to McCoy. He’s awake. Get Jim.”

Jim skidded into the room a few seconds later, Len on his heels. He met Chris’ eyes, then let out a massive sigh of relief and collapsed a little against Len, who caught him and frog-marched him to a chair.

Unpasting his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Chris turned his attention to Len. “What’s the damage?”

Len took a beat to look at Chris’ vitals and wave a tricorder sensor over his head and chest, then answered. “Through-and-through phaser burns to the right chest. Massive trauma to the right lung; be glad lung tissue doesn’t take as long as myelin to regenerate. Your pulmonary vessels on that side were Swiss cheese.”

Chris took a breath. It hurt, but it was doable, which could only mean…“You fixed it?”

Len nodded gravely. “It was a multi-person job, but yeah, _we_ fixed it.”

Chris turned his head and looked back at Phil, the question in his eyes.

“Are you _fucking kidding me_?” he asked rhetorically. “I couldn’t stop shaking long enough to scrub in. No, Rubino and Massman assisted.”

Len continued, “The damage is repaired, Admiral, but you’re gonna be sore as shit for a few days. And you’re not going _anywhere_ for at least a week.”

Chris groaned and looked to Phil for help.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t come looking to _me_ to get you out of staying in bed,” Phil scoffed. “I’m still pissed at you for getting yourself shot at with a _goddamn particle weapon_ in the first place.”

Chris rolled his eyes with deep affection, then looked to Jim, who’d looked better.

“What about the SOB who did this?” Chris asked.

“Harrison,” Jim answered. “He’s on Qo’noS. Scotty tracked him down. And I’m gonna go get him. Tonight.”

Len closed his eyes and seemed to be silently counting to ten so as not to scream at Jim about how dangerous this was. 

Chris frowned. “Your command…”

“Reinstated by Marcus,” Jim finished. “I guess every now and then I can make a good case, too.”

Chris felt the corner of his mouth turn up just slightly, then motioned to Jim. “Get over here.”

Jim came closer to the bed and shook Chris’ proffered hand. Chris tugged, then reached over with his left arm and pulled Jim down to him, into an awkward-angled, one-armed hug. And no, he did _not_ give any damns about command propriety at the moment.

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay kid?”

Jim nodded solemnly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was only so much Chris could do from the confines of a bed on the sixteenth floor of SFM, though not for lack of trying. He was trying to milk as much information as he could from the admiralty and whatever contacts he could think of on Jim’s progress and Harrison’s status, but he was essentially without success; there appeared to be little comm traffic between the Enterprise and HQ, and even Barnett and Nogura were in the dark.

Marcus wouldn’t return Chris’ comms at all. It was deeply, deeply frustrating.

Finally, a comm came through from Barnett: _Enterprise took Harrison alive._

Chris commed him back immediately. _Where are they? What’s going on?_

 _En route back to Earth now_ , Barnett texted back. _Chris, I’m interim fleet admiral. Marcus’ whereabouts currently unknown._

Chris paused. _What the hell?_

 _That’s as much as I know_ , Barnett texted. _I’ll be in touch._

Phil came to check on him around midday, ostensibly to attend to his bandages.

“Where the hell would he have gotten off to?” Phil asked, shaking his head. “He’s the one who was so hellbent on Harrison’s capture.”

“Not capture,” Chris corrected. “Execution. He wanted Harrison dead.” Chris shook his head. “Knowing Marcus, he’s probably pissed that Jim took him alive.”

“So pissed he’d disappear?” Phil countered.

Chris shrugged, then winced when the action hurt. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, but when has sense ever been Marcus’ strong – ”

A tremor shook the floor. A very non-earthquake tremor, more the kind that would come from an outside source. Chris and Phil immediately looked out the window; a black speck was falling from the sky, faster and faster, getting more and more massive as it fell – _it’s not a speck; it’s a starship –_ making its way for the Gate, gunning straight for HQ, the Academy, Medical – _it’s not a starship; it’s a fucking monster_ – before crashing so spectacularly that Chris felt the vibrations in his bones. Explosions immediately dotted the landscape, massive waves from the Bay crashing onto the land. Officers and civilians alike were fleeing from the sight en masse.

All Chris and Phil could do was watch in impotent horror for a few moments of terrifying, eerie silence.

Without moving his eyes from the window, Chris fumbled for his comm. It was frighteningly quiet. For a moment, Chris wished he believed in a hell dark enough for whoever had just done… _that_ …to burn in.

“They’re gonna need me downstairs,” Phil said faintly, struggling to look away from the horror show out the window.

“Go,” Chris breathed, flipping his comm with trembling fingers. “I’m gonna comm everybody in the goddamn fleet if I have to to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

He spent the next few hours alternating between staring out the window at the nightmare he’d just witnessed and going through his mental rolodex, trying to figure out who might have intel, even once or twice trying to comm the Enterprise his own damn self (unsuccessfully, which didn’t surprise him, but he’d had to try). He only managed to get bits and pieces from the Starfleet channels – “Marcus,” “Section 31,” “Khan”… _Khan?_ As a xenosociology major at the Academy, he’d had to spend a good amount of class time going over eugenics and dictatorships both; the only Khan that Chris knew of was a tyrannical superman who had disappeared without a trace at the turn of the millennium. He’d be more than three hundred years old now; _that can’t be…_

Another comm from Barnett. _Marcus is dead. London, Daystrom, today – it all goes back to him. He was in on it. All of it._

Chris blinked at his comm repeatedly, trying to absorb this, but was stopped when Phil walked in.

He was _ashen._

“How bad is it down there?” Chris asked unnecessarily.

Phil gingerly sat on the bed next to Chris, hip to hip with him, and grabbed his hand. His silence sent something icy down Chris’ spine.

“Phil…answer me.”

Phil’s voice was so strained it was hard to hear him. “It’s bad, Chris. It’s really bad.”

Chris’ heart fluttered in his chest. “What about the Enterprise?”

Phil grimaced. “She’s safe. Her, ah…her core misaligned over Earth.”

“…but you said she was safe?”

Phil swallowed audibly and looked down at their intertwined hands. “Jim fixed it,” he almost whispered.

Chris was silent. His pulse thudded in his ears. He looked at Phil desperately, begging him, _tell me, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know, I have to know, please, please, please…_

“Chris,” Phil said, _so_ gently, “Jim _walked into the core_ and fixed it.”

There was a moment of silence, where Chris was overcome by such profound incomprehension that he couldn’t do anything but stare. It wasn’t that time froze; it was that it _didn’t_ freeze, and the idea that the space-time continuum would just keep on going made absolutely no goddamn sense. Slowly, glacially, looking at the haunted look on Phil’s face, the catastrophic puzzle pieces began to assemble themselves into a shape so terrible that Chris, for a brief, brutal moment, wished he’d died at Daystrom just so he wouldn’t have to feel this now.

“No,” Chris said hoarsely, shaking his head. “No, no, no…”

Phil put his hand on Chris’ cheek. “Love…”

Chris’ face crumbled. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Phil just shook his head, a tear streaking down his cheek. “There was nothing anybody could have done.”

And then Chris completely collapsed, wailing, falling into Phil, clinging to his warm, solid presence, gripping his scrub top and the back of his neck, his tears soaking into the fabric of his smock.

 _“God, no, not Jim,”_ Chris keened. _“Not my boy, not my boy, please, not my boy.”_

Phil held him tight, rocking him back and forth, burying his face into Chris’ hair as he desperately, hopelessly sobbed for the man who had, in every way it had ever counted to either of them, become Chris’ son, dearer than blood.

“I’m so sorry, love,” Phil whispered into Chris’ hair. “I’m _so, so sorry._ ”

They sat there, rocking slowly, for longer than either of them could estimate. Faintly, as if from a different room, Chris could hear the overhead comm summoning _Dr. Boyce to the emergency department_. Phil ignored it, letting Chris continue to cling to him.

Eventually, Chris disentangled himself from Phil, but kept close, gripping Phil’s hands. From somewhere in him, Chris conjured up the words, “You need to go.”

His voice sounded alien and hysterical.

In his periphery, Chris saw Phil shake his head. “Fuck them. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Chris shook his head. “I need to be right now. And they need you. Go, Phil.” 

Phil squeezed Chris’ hands tightly. “Okay.” He leaned in and planted a long, gentle kiss on Chris’ forehead. “You need me, you call me, and I’ll drop what I’m doing and come. Got it?” He brushed a lock of hair off Chris’ forehead. “I mean it.”

Chris nodded. “I love you,” he whispered.

Phil wiped tears off Chris’ cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, I love you too.”

Then, reluctantly, he left.

Chris looked around his room, staring unseeing at the monitors, the white bedspread, the PADDs littering the bedside table, the eerie shadows of what little was left of the San Francisco skyline that smoldered out his window.

Irresistibly, he was reminded of the day his mother died, wondering _what’s the protocol_. He suspected there was even less of a roadmap to navigate the loss of a pseudo-son than there was to find one’s way after losing a parent.

_So much I never told him. About your crew becoming your family. To never, ever let them promote you off the bridge of your ship. That he and Len are so, so good together, to never let any ‘Fleet bullshit pry them apart, that I’m so glad he pulled his head out of his ass so they get more time together than Phil and I will ever have. How much he and Spock as a command team are like me and Number One._

_That I’m so, so goddamn proud of him._

_That I love him, like he’s my own._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At some point, Chris must’ve fallen asleep, because he woke up with his eyes full of sand and a pain in his chest far, _far_ greater than anything that came from the particle weapon he got shot with the other day.

The sun was shining cheerily outside, that mocking motherfucker, flooding his room with light and letting him see in stark detail the horrorscape that the Vengeance’s attack had rendered the skyline.

Alcatraz and Fisherman’s Wharf were but scars on the landscape. Telegraph Hill – pretty well obliterated. The Golden Gate – still technically standing, but not serviceable, and horribly damaged. Starfleet HQ – busted windows, gaping holes in the sides, still-burning fires.

Even looking at that couldn’t force Chris’ mind to fully wrap around the agonizing pain of _Jim is dead_. 

Footsteps. Chris looked up distractedly.

Phil walked in, obviously sleep-starved, with enormous bags under his eyes and a weariness to his posture that Chris had never seen him carry before. But, in sharp counterpoint to his exhaustion, Phil also looked… _defiant_. Determined. His jaw set, his eyes blazing, just like he’d looked whenever Chris had come to bail him out of jail for protesting some injustice to the galaxy.

Phil didn’t ask how Chris was doing, because he already knew; Chris didn’t volunteer it, because Phil already knew.

Instead, he just said, “Len has good reason to believe that if Jim is transfused with the enhanced blood from Harrison – Khan – whoever that SOB is – it might regenerate his metabolism.”

Chris just blinked, having not understood much more than _Len_ and _Jim_ in that sentence. “In Standard, please.”

Phil looked at Chris steadily. “Len’s trying to bring Jim back.”

Chris frowned, then looked around a little in complete befuddlement. “That’s…that’s not possible,” he breathed.

Phil sat next to Chris on his bed. “It might be,” he said, with more confidence than the words implied. “Len put him in cryostasis when they brought him into medbay. It hadn’t been more than a few minutes; he had just enough brain function to preserve. Apparently, Harr – Khan – _who the fuck ever he is_ – has some kind of extraordinary regenerative capacity. It’s what makes him so damn powerful. I don’t know the details, but Len said he’s seen this work on less complex organisms.”

Chris sat up carefully. “Wait a minute. I just…” He rubbed his forehead. “Len’s…trying to resurrect him?”

“Len never actually pronounced him,” Phil said. “As far as ‘Fleet Medical is concerned, the man I just admitted to Room 110 is comatose and undergoing a neurology consult from the Enterprise’s CMO.”

“And as far as _Phil_ is concerned?” 

“Len’s trying to resurrect him,” Phil confirmed.

Chris shook his head a little, like a dog trying to clear his ears of water. “Can…can he do that?”

“It’s Jim Kirk, and he’s Leonard McCoy,” Phil said simply. “If anybody can, Len can.”

Chris felt his eyes well again. “I can’t get hopeful about this,” he husked, looking on Phil with desperate eyes. “Phil, I _can’t_.”

“I know,” Phil said gently. “I know.” 

Then, Phil very deliberately turned his body around, looking to the wheelchair folded up in the corner of the room. He looked back to Chris and nodded in its direction.

“D’you wanna go see him?”


	21. Chapter 21

Chris closed his eyes, rolling his neck and hearing it crack loudly a couple of times, before reopening his eyes and looking back at Jim’s preternaturally still form. On his other side, Len stood, swaying on his feet a little as he studied the data on the Jim’s biobed readout.

“When’s the last time you slept, Len?” Chris ventured gently. It was a hypocritical thing to say – it wasn’t as though Chris had slept much since this whole nightmare had begun – but seeing Len’s body tipping precariously to one side and then the other made Chris worry.

Len seemed to shrug, although his back was still to Chris. “Dunno.” His voice was hoarse, raw. It sounded dangerous. 

Still, Chris pressed. “You’ve gotta get some rest sometime.”

“I will,” Len said tonelessly. “When he’s back.” He turned his head; Chris saw Len’s profile as he gazed at Jim, running a shaky hand through his hair.

“Everything’s plateaued,” Len said huskily. “Blood pressure, respirations, metabolic activity. It’s hit a goddamn ceiling. And I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

Something in Chris turned to ice as he heard Len admit that he was out of ideas, because _no_ , Len was _never_ out of ideas, not when it came to saving people, not when it came to Jim.

Len walked over to Jim’s side and sat down on the bed next to him, hip to hip, and took Jim’s perfectly still hand in his. The light outside shifted slightly and cast itself on Len, and Chris’ breath was damn near wrenched out of his body at the look he saw in Len’s eyes – not just the anguish, the anger, the deep grief, but the _guilt_. It was more than any man should ever have to bear.

“I’m not giving up on him, Admiral,” Len said, through obviously gritted teeth, his grip on Jim’s hand obviously bruising.

Chris looked up at Len, who only had eyes for Jim. “All cards on the table here, at this point, I’m pretty sure you can call me Chris.”

Len’s eyes dropped from Jim’s face to their intertwined hands. “Chris,” he tried. Softly. “I’m _not giving up on him_.”

Chris’ heart cracked a little bit more. “I know. You never do.” He dropped his voice to something closer to a whisper. “Thank you.”

_Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for trying in the first place. Thank you for being everything to him, for being there for him when I can’t be, for loving him. Thank you for doing everything to bring him back._

“He told me, you know,” Len said quietly, a pained laugh in his throat, “how you yelled at him. Somethin’ about him justifyin' his playin' god.”

Chris’ heart seized a little, not wanting to remember that fight, but not saying anything.

“Surprised you’re not yellin’ at me,” Len said. “Pretty sure bringin’ a man back from the dead qualifies as playin’ god.”

Chris couldn’t exactly disagree, but. “This is different.” 

“How?”

“This is Jim.”

Even as the words left his mouth, Chris quietly granted Marcus, that backstabbing sonofabitch, a point on that one. He didn’t have a shred of objectivity left where Jim was concerned.

He was absolutely talking like a father. One who desperately wanted his son back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim had been in that nebulous place between death and life for eleven days.

Biobed readouts meant nothing to Chris, but Len’s posture did, and when it straightened, he knew something had happened.

“What is it?” Chris asked softly.

Len didn’t answer. He just stared slack-jawed at the little wavy lines on the screen. He rubbed both his eyes, shook his head vigorously, and blinked several times in rapid succession.

“Alpha waves,” he finally breathed, before fumbling for the comm panel on the wall and summoning Phil _“right damn now.”_

Phil was there less than a minute later, looking up at the readout, and Chris watched as his eyes filled with tears. 

Chris stood carefully and made his way over next to Phil, his face asking for an explanation.

“He’s asleep,” Phil breathed in awe.

Chris frowned. “…right, and?”

Phil shook his head. “No,” he clarified. “ _Regular_ asleep. _Alive_ asleep.” 

Chris looked back. “You mean it worked?” he whispered.

Len was just looking down at Jim, transfixed on something precious. The complete break of emotional control seemed imminent.

 _“Jim,”_ Chris whispered, feeling a tear streak down his cheek.

Phil squeezed Chris’ hand and motioned wordlessly to the door. _Let’s leave them be_ went unspoken.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days later, Jim’s eyelids twitched. 

Chris didn’t see it. Len did. In fact, he dropped what he was doing and was at Jim’s bedside faster than Chris could see.

“Jim?” Len asked tremulously.

Jim’s eyelids fluttered, little slits of blue peeking through…before closing again.

“What happened?” Chris asked.

“Autonomic response,” Len answered absently, still looking at Jim’s face. “Synapses. Muscle control.”

“Is he waking up?” Chris asked.

“Not yet,” Len said, turning to Chris briefly. “But he’s getting there.”

Chris squeezed Jim’s hand. He could have _sworn_ he felt Jim twitch a little back at him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another day.

Jim was breathing, his exhales making little _pff_ sounds against his mostly closed lips.

Len was watching Jim. Phil was watching Len.

_“Bnnnns.”_

Chris whipped his head around to Jim’s face, then up to Len’s. He heard Phil clap a hand over his mouth.

Len leaned down and kissed Jim square between the eyes. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris was home and napping in the middle of the afternoon – Phil’s orders, because _“you got shot in the chest not three weeks ago, you idiot”_ – when the call came through.

“McCoy to Pike.”

Chris’ hand fumbled on the nightstand until it landed on his communicator. “I’m here, Len. What is it?” 

Len’s voice sounded _exhausted_ , in a very adrenaline crash-y way, but his words were clear.

“He’s awake.” 

Chris threw on some clothes and fumbled out of the house just holding onto the walls for support, moving so fast he forgot his cane for a second.

Walking into Jim’s hospital room, he saw Spock, sitting primly in what Chris had come to think of as “his” chair; and Len, sprawled in his own chair right next to Jim’s bed, looking not insignificantly delirious – _oh yeah, he’s crashing and crashing hard_. But best of all, sitting semi-upright in bed, Jim – whole, conscious, slightly bleary, warm, _alive_ Jim – blinked up at Chris through those stupid bright electric blue eyes.

Chris clenched his jaw to keep it from quivering as he made his way to the foot of Jim’s bed, but there was nothing he could do about the tears welling in his eyes. “I thought I told you not to do anything stupid,” he said gruffly.

Jim smiled, and thought it was weak and exhausted, it was _blinding_. “Yeah, well, I held myself up to your yardstick,” Jim said hoarsely. “What would Chris Pike do?”

The tears spilled over from Chris’ eyes as he came around the side of Jim’s bed and wrapped his arms around his neck, burying his face in his bronze hair, feeling the warm thud of the pulse in Jim’s neck bounding against his fingers, feeling Jim’s arms wind their way around Chris’ middle, his fingers digging into Chris’ back as hard as he dared. “Jim Kirk,” Chris murmured softly, holding Jim to his chest as tight as he could manage. “You _absolute_ pain in my ass.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month later, when Jim was discharged from the hospital, the four of them – Chris, Jim, Phil, and Len – went to Mojave.

After their respective traumas of being shot in the chest and being _resurrected from the goddamn dead_ , Chris and Jim very badly needed some R&R. And after countless weeks of running on nothing but coffee, stim hypos, and _not this time motherfucker_ determination, Len and Phil were equally in need of a vacation.

All of them were also in agreement that staying in San Francisco at the moment – rather, what remained of it – was not insignificantly traumatizing in and of itself.

The Pike family home was just collecting dust; Chris figured they may as well use it and get the benefit of the desert air.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few weeks were quiet.

They cooked. They watched holovids. They read. Phil gave Len some of his old-school, real-paper medical journals. Jim nicked Chris’ battered old copy of _Never Let Me Go,_ denied vociferously having done so, and wouldn’t give it back. They played chess. Chris and Jim, as always, were reasonably well matched. Len wasn’t great. Phil was abysmal.

They did a lot of stargazing. Chris wasn’t in any position anymore to maneuver out his bedroom window onto the roof, and if Jim even tried to, Len would probably drop from an aneurysm, but they could look from the ground. The stars were a little more distant than they had been before, but the view of the sunrise and sunset was flawless. Earth’s Spacedock still did her little silvery twirl in the night sky, the gateway between heaven and Earth, right at the horizon.

They slept. A lot.

It was an altogether different kind of quiet coexistence than the one Chris left behind in this house when he was seventeen. This had no undercurrent of tension, no other shoe about to drop. They were not ships passing in the night.

This was peaceful.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim was asleep.

Chris was on his way to bed, but he needed some water first, so he went out to the kitchen, pausing just before the carpet turned to tile when he heard the voices of Phil and Len from the kitchen table.

He knew it was probably skirting bounds of propriety – or categorically leaping over them – to eavesdrop on this conversation. But he couldn’t help himself.

Len was sitting at the table with a tumbler of bourbon in front of him. Phil was next to him with his own drink, that eternally patient look on his face that Chris had seen a million times before in a million different settings.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Len was saying quietly. “You know, they want to send us up for five years. _Five years_. Can you _imagine_ the number of cockeyed scenarios Jim can get into in five years’ time?” Len took a sip of his bourbon, then bent his head and laced his fingers over the back of his neck. “How can I do this, Phil? How can I bring him back, over and over and over again, just to watch him go off half-cocked and flirt with death again?”

Phil was quiet for a moment, then chuckled lowly. “How can you let him go up there knowing you won’t be there to patch him up afterwards?”

Len looked up at Phil. Jesus, the look in his eyes sent a dart of pain stabbing through Chris’ heart.

“Take it from somebody who knows this experience _way_ too damn well, son,” Phil pleaded. “You became best friends with a goddamn maverick of a starship captain who charges headfirst into all manner of crazy shit under a banner of altruism and completely ignores his own welfare in the process. And then, like an idiot, you fell in love with him.”

Len gave a wry raise of his eyebrows in acknowledgement. He and Phil clinked their glasses together. Chris smiled to himself.

“It’s the hardest job in the universe, seeing the man you love in pain,” Phil continued quietly. “It cuts you to the quick and it never gets easier. _Never_.” Chris watched as Phil took a deep breath and began to smile. “But you know that little sparkle in his eye that you see when he looks out the viewscreen?” he said softly. “You know that rush you get when you see him in action, all strong, brilliant, capable leader? You know how you go to bed with him at night and hold him in your arms and watch his face start to glow as he talks about the stars?”

Len nodded. “Yeah.” His voice sounded tight.

Phil’s smile grew, and he shrugged, shaking his head a little bit. “No greater reward for the hardest job in the universe, is there?”

Len shook his head, a smile blooming over his face. “I guess not.” Chris held his breath.

“You don’t know how to cope with it?” Phil said gently. “Well I’m telling you right now, the _only_ way for you to cope with it is to stay with him. To be waiting in the transporter room with a tricorder and a hypo and some cheek about being a loose cannon when they beam his ass up all bloodied and bruised and sore. You need that, Len. You _both_ do. Don’t you dare run from it.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was Chris Pike’s fiftieth birthday.

Chris and Jim were playing chess in the study while Len lay with his head on Jim’s lap, carefully leafing through an antique issue of _Contemporary Ob/Gyn._ Phil was cooking; Chris smelled lemon, and he’d heard the characteristic _click_ of a parmesan cheese container a few minutes ago.

Len turned a page in his journal, the movement fluttering a lock of hair onto his forehead. Jim absently reached down and brushed it back, out of Len’s eyes, then rested his hand on Len’s chest. Len reached up and took it. They were minute movements, precise, practiced, indicative of men who knew one another better than they knew themselves.

Chris made his move. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.

Phil materialized at Chris’ side, chewing on a piece of pasta. He scooted onto the arm of Chris’ chair, looping an arm around him and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck. Chris didn’t take his eyes off the chessboard, but leaned into Phil’s hand.

Jim’s eyes turned mischievous as he made his move.

“Checkmate, old man.”

Len didn’t even look up from his journal. “ _Thank god._ Does that mean we can eat now?”

Chris sighed, looked up to Phil, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, children, is my love song to Christopher Pike.
> 
> Some crucial notes:
> 
> Many story elements herein appear in two earlier stories of mine, “prime numbers” and “driving with the brakes on,” both on AO3. “prime numbers” is, essentially, a far more condensed version of the first seventy-ish percent of this story. While I’d be delighted if you read those, they exist independently of this story and are not essential to understanding the events herein.
> 
> I realize this story diverges pretty heavily from what little novel-based apocrypha we have on Chris’ backstory. Adopt it to your own personal headcanon or not as you see fit - no disrespect to those creators intended.
> 
> Substantial swaths of dialogue in chapters 13 and 17 taken from ST09; substantial swaths of dialogue in chapters 19 and 20 taken from STID. Personal ownership of those words hereby disclaimed.
> 
> Chris and Becca’s wedding vows from chapter 11 adapted with permission from mccoymostly’s inimitable In Darkness, which, yes, you absolutely need to drop everything and go read.
> 
> Title shamelessly ripped off from Ed Sheeran’s “All of the Stars.”
> 
>  
> 
> Acknowledgements:
> 
> Thank you to my mother, who delightedly let me bounce ideas off of her even when she had no idea what I was talking about.
> 
> Thanks to Alice for her insights on writing about physical disability.
> 
> Thank you to my entire Tumblr Trek family for their encouragement, their excitement, and their infinite support. I hope this story has lived up to your expectations.
> 
> Thanks to Bruce Greenwood for playing the hell out of Chris and giving me no choice but to fall in love with that character.
> 
> Infinite thanks to Anna (mccoymostly on AO3 and Tumblr) for…Jesus, where do I even start with you, dude? For perpetual availability to spitball ideas, for ensuring my medical ideas didn’t make me sound like a dumbass, for your infinite Phil love, for empathizing with me when I wanted to flick Chris in the forehead for being an oblivious ass, and for getting more excited about this project than even I was. I meant what I said, darling. I may have given birth to PikeEpic, but you helped midwife it into being, and for that I will be forever grateful. Your friendship is cherished, pea, more than you will ever know.
> 
>  
> 
> My father was a Trekkie who loved mathematics, music, photography, and solving New York Times crossword puzzles in ink. He told me when I was ten that he knew I’d write a novel one day. I wish he was here to read it.
> 
> His name was Vince, and this story is for him.


End file.
